


Standing Calmly at the Crossroads (No Desire to Run)

by zarduhasselfrau



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: (Thor has a knife wound that gets treated in part one but it's non-graphic), (we're focusing on the tender 'patching someone up after a fight' aesthetic), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Hulk Has His Own Unique Personality and Identity, It's 3 parts and 3 different time periods, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Endgame, Some bad decisions are made, Thor talks Shakespeare in 2012 then like his Ragnarok-self afterwards, and Endgame basically killed him and I won't let that stand, character injury, first part is fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-08-11 15:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarduhasselfrau/pseuds/zarduhasselfrau
Summary: Thor and Bruce are briefly alone in the tower after The Battle of New York. Despite the bleeding stab wound, and the awkwardness of talking to a borderline-stranger you punched earlier, it's not at all as messy as it should be.They end up in the same position after the Avengers reach their endgame, this time without fresh wounds and with a decade of friendship and understanding.It's a car crash.





	Standing Calmly at the Crossroads (No Desire to Run)

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively: Thor and Bruce and the decade long journey to mutual understanding.
> 
> Title is a lyric from the ABBA song - When All Is Said And Done. (The Mamma Mia version is the mood of this fic and you could 100% listen to it after reading this if you need to chill for a minute.)

Bruce needs a nap.

No. He _wants_ a nap. What he needs is a shower, some peace and quiet, and some space.

“You can have one from that list,” Tony tells him, not looking up from the cocktail he’s working on. (His hands are shaking a little. Bruce won’t say anything.) “Take your pick.” They’re both at the bar. It isn’t where Bruce usually chooses to be in a room, but Tony’s working on “celebratory drinks” and Bruce has just gravitated toward him. Tony hasn’t been scared of him once the whole time, and he kind of craves that. Also, on a more selfish note, Natasha, Clint, and Steve have commandeered the sofas. The bar is the only place left to sit down on this floor of the tower and Bruce _needs_ to sit down. He feels like Tony’s newly invented cocktail, shaken around and tossed in the air a few times. Nobody else looks much better.

“Hmm.” Bruce glances down at himself, wrapped up in a blanket and covered in hell knows what. Some of it is probably alien blood. “Shower,” he answers after gathering his strength. Even talking to Tony feels like a mammoth task right now. He’s normally dazed after Hulk sessions, often tired. Sometimes he comes out of it and into an immediate panic attack before he can even get his bearings. But this time? This exhaustion he can feel in his bones? This is new.

“Attaboy.” Tony reaches over the counter to pat him on the shoulder. “That means you’re coming for shawarma.” A fresh wave of tiredness crashes into him. The urge to lay his head down on the bar and just go to sleep is overwhelming. Either Tony can read his mind or how exhausted the thought of moving makes him feel is showing on his face, because Tony continues, “don’t think you’ll get to stay behind if you fall asleep. Nobody is skipping out on shawarma.” He points a finger at Bruce accusingly and then around the rest of the room.

Bruce reluctantly turns to follow his gesture. It’s the first time he’s really taken a look around the room since coming to, to Tony throwing a blanket over him. He’s been avoiding everyone… just a little. An arm that’s only thick enough to belong to Steve rises and gives them a thumbs-up over the back of the sofa. Neither Natasha nor Clint give any response, or at least not that Bruce can see from the back of their heads. They seem awake though. Clint’s perched on the back of the sofa with his feet up on the armrest and Natasha is keeping him upright with the arm she’s resting on the back of the sofa. 

“I do not know what ‘shawarma’ is.” Thor’s confession comes out like it’s a dark secret, and if Bruce wasn’t so weary it would probably have made him smile. He’s stood over by the window, looking out over the city. His hammer is resting on the coffee table where the other three are sitting. Bruce would call that a display of trust, but it’s not like any of them could make off with it.

“Oh, thank God,” Steve finally sits up. “I thought it was just me.”

“You don’t have to thank him with his official title you know,” Tony says. He’s pouring his witch’s brew into a glass now, presumably so he can pretend he doesn’t see Steve glaring at him as he gets up. “I already told you, I don’t know what it is either. I just know we’re gonna love it.” 

Bruce _does_ know what it is, and he knows it’s good. What he doubts is that he’s in any mood to enjoy anything. He keeps having to shake his head to clear the fuzz. As nice as Tony is, they both have very different reactions to life and death situations. Tony can’t sit still, like he thinks that if he keeps active the bad thoughts won’t catch up with him. Or maybe if he keeps deflecting nobody will notice the sensation of that ice-cold darkness is stalking him. 

Bruce can’t do that, at least not right now. He’s too tired to move, drifting off even whilst he’s sitting up. Every so often he zones out completely and stares at random spots for whole minutes because even moving his eyes away feels like too much effort. As relieved as he is that Tony’s alright (and as fascinated as he is that Hulk, whose good deeds can be counted on one hand, saved him) right now he doesn’t know if he’s up for shawarma. But he can’t say that. Tony’s the one who nearly died, Tony’s the one who flew a _nuke_ into _space_. So if Tony, one of the first people to believe in Bruce in a long time, wants to go for shawarma to celebrate not dying, then they’re going for shawarma. 

“I am not so sure,” Thor says, folding his arms across his chest and continuing to stare broodily across the city. “Every moment I tarry here is another chance Loki has to escape.”

“Tarry?” Tony rolls his eyes and takes a sip of the first ever Iron Man-tini, apparently without thinking. He makes a face and holds the glass out like it has scalded him. “… Hey Brucie, you think Hulk could drin-”

“No.” He already aches so deep his bones are throbbing, and his mouth already tastes like vomit. He doesn’t need another Hulk episode right now. With a weary exhale, he puts his arms down on the bar as a pillow for the right side of his head. His world tilts and narrows to the window, the New York skyline, and Thor, who frowns at him with concern. 

“Loki will be fine Thor. He can wait a few minutes while we eat,” Steve pipes up, making his way over to the bar. He takes the drink from Tony, downs it in one, and hands it back, reactionless, while Tony is still staring at him like he’s just spat in his face. “He doesn’t have outside help anymore, you muzzled him, and Shield has him under lock.”

“Also, I’m not there to destroy everything,” Bruce says, aiming for a joke. It doesn’t quite land, of course, because people tend to have a hard time figuring out if Bruce is joking or self-depreciating. (It’s both, always.) Although he doesn’t see how everyone else reacts, he does see the smile Thor offers him. Bruce is pretty sure it’s just a courtesy smile, he can’t imagine what else it’s for, but he forces his tired muscles to work and gives a half-hearted smile back.

“Still,” Thor muses, failing at looking concerned because of the lingering smile on his face, “I would feel better if we could oversee his security.”

“Shield aren’t amateurs,” Natasha says without looking back. Bruce sits up to look at her because seeing Thor and skyscrapers sideways is starting to make his woozy head feel even sicker. “They’ll be fine.”

Steve is cleaning up the mess Tony’s made of the bar, but he looks up at the defensive tone Natasha takes. “It couldn’t hurt to go and supervise,” he says. “You know, just to help Thor calm down. Then we can go for food.”

“I’d feel better showering if you guys weren’t here,” Bruce agrees. They won’t need him to tag along. Hulk isn’t needed or wanted, so Bruce is either useless or a liability depending on where you’re standing. Of course, what he’s said goes unheard. That’s what he always is when he’s not big, green, and hard to miss. 

“I’m not leaving the shawarma place every five seconds to check on Loki,” Natasha sighs. She runs a hand through her wild hair and turns back to look at them. For the first time Bruce realises how tired she looks. He gets an absurd urge to interrupt the entire conversation to apologise to her, over and over until she gets fed up of hearing it and knocks him out.

“We could go check out his cell,” Steve says with a slightly nervous glance at Natasha, like maybe she’ll kick his ass for offering alternatives. “Then if Thor's satisfied we can eat.” Natasha watches him for a minute, almost scrutinizing him, then she shrugs and nods.

“Or, I could simply take him back to Asgard right now,” Thor argues. 

“Nope, nuh-uh.” Tony shakes his finger at him again. “You go to Asgard and you’re gonna get trapped in legal nonsense and ceremonies and ‘welcome home’s that will last days. I’m not waiting days for shawarma and we’re getting shawarma _together_. You can take Loki back after that.” He moves away from the bar to the middle of the room, purposefully standing between Thor and the lift. “We’ll go do a home inspection, then we’ll come collect Bruce again, then we’ll eat-”

“Hey,” Natasha says, still looking back over the sofa at the four of them. She sounds like she’s just learned something mildly interesting on the Discovery Channel that she wants to share. “Why is Thor bleeding?”

Every Avenger turns to look at Thor, who looks down at himself with what _can’t_ be curiosity. There’s a large blooming patch of red on his abdomen and Bruce is instantly wide-awake and alert, no longer drowsy, when he sees it. He’s torn in half between cringing away and rushing over. The air rushes out of his lungs, like the rising panic is clutching him in its fist and squeezing. No. No, no, no they won. They won, Thor can’t… he can’t…

He can’t seriously be chuckling right now.

“Oh, yes!” Thor, still laughing, smiles down at the dark red, clearly bleeding wound and then back up at all of them. Natasha and Clint share a sidelong glance with identically raised eyebrows. Steve looks between all of them and gestures at Thor helplessly, like he’s asking one of them to stop him. Thor doesn’t appear to notice any of this. He’s all cheer, and apparently immune to the horror spreading through the room. 

One of them should get up. No, _Bruce_ should get up. He’s the one with actual experience (though, thinking about it, everybody in this room has probably had to learn field surgery by now). But he’s still trying to pull the two threads of his fear and Thor’s laughter through the same needle-hole. So he just watches Thor laugh, probably going into hysterical shock because Bruce, who could actually be useful for once, is just sitting there doing nothing because he’s panicking and- 

“Loki did get a little stab in, I must admit,” Thor cuts into his self-depreciating and one of his hands comes up to rub at his neck almost bashfully. 

“He _stabbed_ you?!” Steve demands, voice breaking a little. Bruce’s brain feels a little fuzzy, a little bit like it’s not his own for a second. Something big and green at the back of his head lets out a furious roar that leaves his ears ringing while Steve continues, “Have you just been sitting here this whole time with a _stab wound_?!” 

“My apologies.” Thor’s beaming grin drops into a bemused smile. “I suppose I forgot about it.” 

“You _forgot_… that you were _stabbed_?” Tony repeats, openly gaping at him. 

“Respect,” Natasha says, giving Thor a nod like they’re part of an exclusive club (other than the Avengers). She’s probably been stabbed and walked it off before. 

Bruce feels like he should say something, but he has no idea what. He’s still confused and dazed from the hulk, still coming down from the panic that the sight of Thor’s blood had set racing through his own. Is Thor really okay? He seems to be. He’s still smiling. Then again, Bruce is beginning to think smiling is the only facial expression Thor has. Maybe. Bruce doesn’t know. The tiredness is sinking back in, even heavier and faster now that he’s wasted energy on freaking out. His brain’s not up to thinking right now.

“It will be quite alright. Asgardians have a natural healing factor,” Thor explains. 

Oh.

Bruce feels the tension in the room pop. He relaxes again, only slightly, to lean back against the bar. 

“You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?” Natasha has the most incredulous look on her face. Steve has his head in his hands for a moment, then he sighs and stands up straight.

“Alright, new plan. Stark, Hawkeye, Natasha, and I will go inspect the cell. Banner, put some clothes on. Thor,” Steve turns to Thor with an exasperated look, “go deal with your _stab wound_ please.” He shakes his head. Thor sets his jaw and shakes his head right back, but not in disbelief.

“That won’t be necessary. My healing factor will have dealt with it in just a few minutes.” He starts walking toward the hammer. “Loki is my responsibility. I could not sit idly by while-” Tony pokes him as he’s passing him, hard and right on the patch of blood. Thor stops in his tracks, clutches at the wound with both hands, and makes a sharp noise as he visibly cringes. Bruce winces. Maybe all of them except Tony (who looks rather smug) do.

“Stark!” Steve complains. “Thor? Are you okay?” He glares at Tony, who shrugs helplessly at him like Thor – who is still just standing there, frozen in place - made him do it.

“I am well,” Thor insists in a strangled cry that tapers off into a hiss. It sounds like somebody’s choking him. Bruce’s abdomen aches in sympathy, the ghost of a stabbing sensation behind his skin.

“Yeah, no,” Clint speaks up. It’s the first time Bruce has really heard him talk. “Battle adrenaline is wearing off, so now you’re gonna actually feel the pain. Sit down Thor, I’d love to go see Loki.” There’s actual glee in his eyes. Maybe it was better when he wasn’t talking.

“And I’d love to stop Clint from taking revenge on a _prisoner_,” Natasha adds, shooting Barton a glare. Bruce doubts that somehow, but he thinks it’s more of a reminder for Clint that they’re supposed to be acting ‘heroically’ now. Bruce is pissed off at Loki too, forced Hulking Out and everything, but you don’t kick a guy when he’s down and in handcuffs. 

“I will not sit down for a simple knife-wound,” Thor protests. All five humans in the room raise their eyebrows as one. “I mean-” Thor trips over his words for a second. “I know being stabbed is more dangerous for Midgardians-”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Tony huffs.

“- but for Asgardians it is a minor problem. Loki stabbed me all the time when we were children!” He looks around the room like he’s expecting them to laugh, and he looks extremely disappointed when all he gets are concerned frowns. (Bruce’s frown is more confusion than concern, this hulk-out is a hard one to shake off. His senses are overwhelmed and sensitive, so processing everything is taking a while) Tony takes the opportunity of Thor’s disappointment to take hold of his shoulders and walk him back to the bar. (But he must go willingly, Bruce thinks, because Tony couldn’t possibly shift Thor’s mass if Thor didn’t want to move.) 

“It really will be all healed up in a few minutes,” Thor insists.

“Then you won’t mind sitting down until then, if it’s not going to take long,” Tony says, backing Thor into the bar stool next to Bruce. Their legs bump for a second and Bruce, who is used to taking up as little space as possible, cringes into himself. “Swallow your pride for a few minutes Point Break. Look at Bruce, he’s worried sick about you.” 

Thor turns to do just that, blinking like he’s only just realised Bruce is here, which is… yeah. Great. Fine. Whatever. Why would a godlike alien pay any attention to him now he’s just himself again? Bruce, of course, avoids eye contact, but he still catches it when Thor’s face takes on the look of a sad puppy. “Indulge us Your Highness,” Tony cuts into a silence Bruce didn’t even notice forming. Thor finally looks away from him to meet Tony’s gaze. “Stay here and heal.” There’s a beat, then Thor nods.

Satisfied, Tony turns around to leave. The other Avengers take that as their cue. “Bruce, shower’s… uh, that-a-way.” Tony gestures in the direction of a door. “Through the penthouse bedroom. Grab some clothes please, you’re not going for shawarma in a blanket.”

“Thanks Tony,” Bruce calls after him weakly. While the four of them are waiting for the lift to rise, Tony turns around again. 

“Thor, there’s a first aid kit behind the bar – that’s if you need it, I don’t know how your weird space prince magical healing work. You stay here. You do not move, you do not follow us, you do not fly off the tower, you just stay here and deal with that wound. I am _not_ having you trailing blood into the shawarma place. I’m serious, I’ve been thinking about that shawarma since mid-fight. Do not ruin this for me by pissing off the owners.” The Avengers behind him roll their eyes at each other. Tony’s being even more… Tony than he has been all day. The snark and the forced bravado. Bruce’s own deflection is pretty much limited to sarcasm, but he still gets it. If Tony’s gonna use his own personality as a shield till he can go collapse somewhere in peace, then Bruce isn’t going to judge..

The elevator arrives with an obnoxious ding. Thor shifts forward a little in his seat as the Avengers head through the doors. They notice, of course, and apparently the “I’m Watching You” gesture is universal because Thor looks down at the floor when Tony makes it at him. He looks like a kicked puppy, because everything Thor does resembles a golden retriever in _some way_. It makes Bruce feel bad and he wasn’t even the one who made Thor stay.

“Hey, Thor,” Clint leans around Tony and holds the doors for a second. Thor perks up at the sound of his name. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ve got Loki handled. He can’t do anything now.” Thor smiles, but there’s no real warmth behind it, no heat radiating off of him that warms Bruce. The God of Thunder nods, slowly and reluctantly.

“We’ll be back soon.” Tony sounds like he’s leaving his kids at daycare. He points at both of them, one after the other, then makes a connecting gesture both ways with his finger. “Take care of each other.” Then Clint leans back, the doors close, and their teammates are gone.

It’s eerily silent in the tower.

Bruce had been so focused on his uselessness to the mission, his need for a shower, how much he didn’t want to get up and move, that he hadn’t stopped to consider being left here with Thor. Maybe it’s Tony’s absence and the gap where his noise was, but Bruce is hyperaware of the sound of his own breathing, of the fresh tension in his shoulders. He glances over at Thor from the corner of his eyes. Thor is doing the exact same thing, and he offers a small, probably false smile when Bruce startles and averts his gaze. Great. He’s been left alone with the person he has the least in common with. What is he even supposed to say to an alien and a borderline god? How are they supposed to ‘take care of each other’ when they don’t understand each other?

“They’ll be fine,” he blurts out without thinking. It’s Thor’s turn to startle as the silence breaks. “Watching Loki, I mean,” Bruce clarifies and turns to face Thor properly. Why is Thor so _big_? How does he take up that much space and not get self-conscious? It’s like sitting next to a statue. 

“I’m sure,” Thor says, and Bruce can tell he’s only agreeing to be polite. “I will feel much more secure once he is returned to Asgard. We have caused enough damage to your realm.”

“Yeah.” Bruce looks out the window sheepishly. None of the carnage is visible from this height but he remembers how bad it was _before_ Hulk got involved. He can’t remember much of the actual fight. Most of Hulk’s memories are _Hulk’s_ memories and closed off to him. Bits and pieces are all he ever remembers, stray change lost between sofa cushions. The important stuff, some of the unimportant stuff. It’s been a long time since he tried to find reasoning behind the choice of memories. “We should probably have helped Steve clean up a little.” Maybe he can’t move rubble like Steve, or lift cars like Thor, or fund the operation like Tony, or-

“We were victorious, and that is what matters,” Thor says, snapping him out of his spiral. “I would trade an infinite number of buildings for the life of one person.” He sounds like something out of a fantasy novel that Bruce has never had the time to read. In a weird kind of way, it’s endearing. In a weirder kind of way, it almost breaks through Bruce’s protective layer of cynicism. 

… _almost_ breaks through. “I know some politicians who might disagree,” he jokes, but then suddenly remembers Thor is a prince. That means, “Wait, are you a politician? Do you count?” For a second he cringes at his own awkwardness, but instead of frowning at him Thor smiles.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose. But I don’t think I should associate with them if they value property over lives.” It’s either a joke or very sweet, so Bruce smiles because he can’t tell which.

“They’d probably like you. Me, on the other hand, they’re not so big a fan of. I tend to,” he struggles for the right word for a moment, his exhausted brain moving too slowly to provide it, “… smash. Hulk probably wrecked more than he saved out there.” There’s shifting at the edge of his vision, and then Thor brings him out of his contemplation by clasping his shoulder in one huge hand.

Something about the gesture – foreign as it is to him after years without real human contact - stirs a memory. A green blur smashing into a red blur. The instant they make contact the red blur shatters and spreads out to the left across a dark backdrop, like fractal art. 

Hulk had punched Thor, unprompted. 

The guilt and surprise give Bruce a new jolt of energy, and he jumps up. Thor startles, his hand still hanging in mid-air and his mouth still open for whatever he was about to say. He looks almost hurt. Bruce knows he must look like a jerk, jumping away the instant Thor touches him, but the issue isn’t Thor. The problem is him.

“I- I should probably take that shower,” Bruce manages to stutter out, almost tripping over the bar in his haste to get away. Thor watches him go, that hand still hovering. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid._ The mantra follows him all the way through Tony’s bedroom, through his closet, through his bathroom. The surroundings pass him in a blur. He doesn’t even stop to take in the incredible unfamiliarity of an obviously rich person’s décor. There’s just a vague awareness of a lot of red and gold (seriously Tony), a lot of shirts (and pants that look way too tight, SERIOUSLY Tony), and a bathroom bigger than most of the apartments Bruce has stayed in since the accident.

The water feels good, like it’s washing the ache and exhaustion right of him. Getting clean in a Shield shower that didn’t cut out every two minutes and was relatively safe to open your mouth under had been a luxury a few days ago. Tony’s ridiculous power shower feels like it’s from another world, he hasn’t been this clean in… maybe ever. The utilities were cut off a lot when he was younger. It’s like coming back to life, the warmth returning to his body and the pain fading away. His hands stop shaking, his legs feel steadier, and eventually he doesn’t have to brace himself against the cool tile to stay standing. For a time, he feels so peaceful under the soothing water that he forgets all his worries. 

It’s almost like slipping into meditation. Most people like to use the shower to contemplate, but Bruce’s thoughts are always racing. He has to keep control at all times, always assessing danger, always planning an escape route. The same had been true when he was a child, living in fear in his own house. Even when he’d been studying for his degrees, beyond question the best years of his life, his brain had never shut off. It had always been busy with some new theory, new potential, new project. To have an empty head is a novel kind of peace.

Bruce knows it can’t last. He’s not even surprised when his mind pivots back to the events of the day, to the Avengers. He’s still disappointed though, still tries in vain to shut his thoughts off again.

It’s nice to be part of a team. Even if things are awkward, even if his teammates are still wary of him, it’s just nice to be around people again. He repeats that to himself a few times, trying to hold back the lingering doubt that tells him they don’t want him there, that sure Hulk is strong but Bruce Banner is weak, and a ticking time bomb they have to watch when they’re off the battlefield. Even if he’s still the odd one out, even if he still can’t really connect with them, he gets to sit on the edge and live vicariously through this unique bond he’s been invited to witness. That’s enough. Maybe it’s the closest thing to friends he’ll get now, people who let him hang out with them because they’re weird too. It’s still precious, and it’s still more than he deserves. 

…Thor probably doesn’t want to ‘hang out’ with him after Hulk’s punching incident. What’s his problem? What is Hulk’s _issue_? He’d give anything to sit down with Hulk and talk to him, ask him why he’s so angry all the time about every single thing. Bruce knows why _he’s_ bitter and angry: he’s had a shitty life with a shitty family, he’s got a giant green rage monster ruining his life, and the U.S Army wants to drag him back to a lab and take him apart. What does Hulk have to be angry about? He just comes out every so often and ruins Bruce’s life. He’s only just met Thor and already the guy probably doesn’t trust him, because Hulk is an asshole and apparently has something against him. 

The hardest part of this is not being able to predict or guess Thor’s reaction. Bruce likes to think he’s got a pretty good handle on what makes Tony tick already. Natasha’s guarded, but that says a lot about her in its own way. Clint’s in shock, and Steve is _clearly_ depressed about his leap forward in time. (Bruce considers himself a depression expert. He knows that hollow, ‘this might as well happen’ acceptance.)

Thor, though? Thor is… hard to pin down. He’s an alien, so already the opposite of everything Bruce knows. He's a warrior, not a scientist. He’s a god with an appropriate level of self-confidence, so again that makes him the opposite of Bruce in every way imaginable. He’s… well, it would be modest to call Thor handsome. That adjective feels too small, too simplistic. It does absolutely no justice to Thor’s looks. Bruce glances down at his own body. Yeah, polar opposites. 

It’s impossible to guess at Thor’s thoughts, because it’s impossible to put himself in Thor’s shoes. His worldview is literally alien to Bruce. It’s a hard thing to accept. Part of the careful control Bruce has to keep over the Hulk involves predicting everybody else’s thoughts and actions, and dancing around them accordingly. When he can’t predict somebody else, he can’t predict himself. 

He realises how long he’s been in the shower only when he starts planning his apology to Thor. With a few curses, several apologies to Mother Earth, and a stern self-lecture about how saving New York won’t matter if they all die because of climate change, he turns off the water and grabs one of Tony’s ridiculously plush towels. Despite his worries, Bruce is significantly dryer, cleaner, and more at peace than he was when he left Thor for the shower. Tony’s pants are tight, as he’d guessed, but having clean clothes is well worth the discomfort. He’s still towelling off his hair when he exits Tony’s bedroom, but he immediately drops it when he sees what’s beyond the door.

Thor is shirtless, armour discarded on the floor and his cape haphazardly flung over the bar. He’s twisting himself into an awkward position with his back to Bruce and wow, okay, there are a lot of muscles in the back huh? Like, a lot, that shift and move and sort of- _hey_! Bruce shakes himself. He is a model of self-control. He is better than this. He has to be. _Heart rate spikes, remember genius?_

The door clicks shut behind him and Thor jumps, spinning around with wild eyes like Bruce has caught him stealing. 

Under penalty of death, Bruce might admit that the first thing to catch his attention is not the stab wound but Thor’s abs.

“Banner,” Thor greets him with a strained smile. That’s suspicious enough to get Bruce’s mind back on track. “How was the shower?” 

“Good,” Bruce manages to form words, with his attention now focused on the wound and not Thor’s… everything else. “How’s the injury?”

“It’s fine,” Thor says, that same strained smile on his face. For a god, he has a terrible poker face. Bruce squints skeptically at the still bleeding wound. 

“Shouldn’t it have closed by now?” He asks, walking over to take a closer look. With the post Hulk pain gone he feels steadier and focused. This time he can actually help, instead of freezing in place like an idiot. Thor’s shoulders drop and he looks down at the floor like he’s been caught in a lie. Which is bizarre, because Bruce was only checking on him.

“On Asgard it would be. I admit to being a little… concerned.” Bruce reaches out. He’s aiming to manoeuvre Thor back onto another seat so he can assess the situation, but his hand stops short because that’s _bare skin_. Can he touch? It feels like he isn’t allowed to touch. Thor has this intimidating, overwhelming physical presence, and everything Bruce knows about his own place on the social ladder is telling him he’s not permitted to touch anybody, let alone Thor with all his... everything. Bruce barely lets himself tap people on the shoulder, this is… “Here.” Thor makes the decision for him, grabbing his hand and moving it to the edges of the wound. He doesn’t even blink while Bruce feels his own eyes go wide. “You’re a doctor, right?”

“N-not just that kind of doctor,” Bruce stumbles over his words at first, preoccupied with the skin-on-skin brush. Despite his denial, his fingers trace the outline of the wound on autopilot. He _has_ been working as a doctor ever since going on the run. He’s just used to explaining his PhDs to people. “Does that still hurt?” He doesn’t dare look up at Thor’s face, or let himself acknowledge who he’s touching. The wound is all that matters, focus on that. It’s just another patient, it’s not the Prince of Asgard who you punched across a room earlier.

“Only when someone acts as Stark did,” Thor sighs. He sounds crushed, and that almost gets Bruce to look up. 

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Bruce reassures him, assuming the sadness is because he’s worried about the wound even though he’s not sure Thor can feel fear. “Do you think Lok’s knife had any special properties?” The wound doesn’t look particularly irritated. There’s nothing to suggest it’s out of the ordinary because Bruce doesn’t exactly know what _is_ ordinary for Asgardians. It isn't really bleeding anymore, more like an irritated spot than a knife wound, and that must be weird Asgardian biology at work.

“No,” Thor sounds almost reluctant as he continues, “I am beginning to suspect our healing factor simply works slower when we are beyond Asgard’s reach. I was going to treat it, but it has been some time since I had to-”

“I could do it,” Bruce blurts out while the metaphorical doctor’s coat is still on his shoulders. Thor shifts to look at him, but he doesn’t meet his gaze. He doesn’t dare shake his own confidence by looking up at Thor’s eyes and remembering his place.

“… That’s not necessary,” Thor begins, and Bruce doesn’t think. He just reacts naturally like he does for any patient, and scoffs.

“So you’re just gonna clean this out by yourself?” There’s a beat of silence, then he feels Thor relax under his hands. Satisfied that he’s going to cooperate, Bruce reaches for the first aid kit on his cape. Fortunately, it’s overstocked. _Really_ overstocked. (Does Tony have a therapist? He should probably get one.) With the kit in one hand he pauses, considers how cold the floor probably is, and grabs Thor’s cape too.

“I really can do this myself,” Thor tries to protest one last time, sounding almost indignant as Bruce spreads the cape out on the floor and gestures for him to lie down. “Can’t we do this sitting up?” 

“Tony told us to take care of each other, remember?” Bruce doesn’t comment on Thor’s second suggestion, doesn’t let himself think about trying to work around Thor’s shifting torso. Instead he gets down on the floor and tucks his legs under himself, the soles of his shoes facing the kit and his face directed toward Thor but looking at the ground. It’s a silent protest that won’t be argued with. “Come on, let me be useful.” Somehow he’s been able to avoid meeting Thor’s gaze, and he busies himself with digging supplies out of the kit while Thor is laying down specifically to keep up this avoidance. This is fine. He can just work quietly.

“You are plenty useful,” Thor argues while Bruce is preoccupied with pulling on gloves and getting out disinfectants. “I am the useless one.” If Bruce hadn’t trained himself to keep a steady hand during medical emergencies, he’d probably have dropped the bottle. Useless and ‘all powerful alien prince with lightning powers’ don’t belong in the same sentence. “Waylaid by a trivial knife wound because I underestimated my brother.” The hand closest to Bruce clenches into a fist. For a long minute, Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He just focuses on cleaning. 

“If it helps,” he manages to say eventually, “this is bizarrely casual for me. If you were a human this would be a much bigger deal, and we would have had to deal with it a long time ago.” He pauses, reconsiders. “You might actually have died by the time we got Loki into custody, since everybody else was too busy to help.” 

“But I’m not human,” Thor says, with a note in his voice that Bruce recognises from how he talks about himself. He says nothing though, just keeps working. It sounds like Thor’s got more to say. “This may be a ‘big deal’ to Midgardians but it is nothing to me. Having it bleed for so long is…” 

“A new experience?” Bruce offers. “Hey, casually chatting while I fix someone up is a new experience for me too. It’s really weird not being in emergency mode. Feels like I’m treating a papercut.” 

“That is a fair comparison.” Thor almost sounds amused. It feels good to bring that back to his voice, and Bruce’s hands get a little steadier from the bizarre confidence boost it gives him. There’s a minute of peaceful silence before Thor picks up his self-depreciation again. This time though, it’s gentler. “I apologise for the hassle over such a small issue.”

“Stop it,” Bruce surprises himself with how commanding it comes out. Thor must be surprised too, because he goes impossibly stiller under Bruce’s hands. “It’s fine, accepting help is fine. We’re teammates now, and this is what teammates do.” He pauses, searching through the bag again. “Would your doctors usually stitch this wound?” Most people wouldn’t outside of a hospital, but Bruce has been operating in less sterile conditions than this for a year now. He has the knowledge, and Tony’s bag has the tools. 

“Normally it can close itself, but if it’s not going to…” Thor trails off and Bruce nods, grabbing his supplies. He hesitates, though, when he’s looking at Thor stomach and not the bag. There’s a reason doctors aren’t supposed to operate on people they know. “It won’t hurt,” Thor says, having clearly noticed his dilemma. “I barely felt a bleeding wound, remember? Do as you must.” 

The casual confidence in his voice is all the motivation Bruce needs, and he gets to work. His first instinct is to be gentle, but he knows that could just make it harder, so he resists said urge. “My apologies for being so awkward Banner,” Thor continues, like Bruce isn’t stitching him up and they’re just two guys hanging out at a bar. That’s weird. Thor is weird. He can’t think about this for too long because the entire situation, his entire life right now, is weird. “It isn’t that I do not trust you, or that I am too prideful to accept help. I simply do not wish to be any more of a burden to Midgardians than I have already been this week.”

“Well, you just helped save New York,” Bruce says, distantly aware of his tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration. “And it’s not like you’re responsible for Loki’s actions. You came here to get him as soon as you knew where he was.”

“Your realm has been put in danger by my family’s actions. Even if I am not personally responsible, I should carry it on Loki’s behalf.”

“Yeah, well, families can be rough,” Bruce mutters. It takes every bit of his willpower not to let his mind drift into dangerous memories. “And you can’t always hold yourself responsible for their actions.” They stay in silence for a while, but it’s not comfortable.

“It is hard not to feel guilt when Loki has personally affected people I know.” Thor’s voice is so quiet Bruce almost misses it. He’s about three quarters done with his work now, the pressure is easing off, but he tenses again at Thor’s words. “I… owe an apology to you in particular Banner. I ought to have taken Loki’s potential escape more seriously. He used you and Hulk as pawns. Perhaps if I had been prepared you would not have-”

“That’s really more an apology I owe everybody than anybody owes me,” Bruce interrupts, because this is the first time anyone has _apologised_ for the cause of a Hulk out and he’s not sure he can stand to hear it. “Especially Natasha. She could have…” _She could have died._ Natasha’s strong, and capable, and the kind of deadly that walks a fine line between terrifying and fascinating. But she’s also about the size of one of Hulk’s arms. 

“Banner, you were in danger,” Thor says, and his voice is so soft and soothing that it’s almost unfair. Bruce doesn’t deserve soft, Hulk doesn’t deserve soft. He doesn’t want to hear anymore, wants Thor to shut up, or call him a monster, or do something, anything _normal_ that he knows how to deal with. “Hulk reacted to the fear and pain.”

“You fought him.” Bruce finishes off the stitches with the last of his carefully maintained control. He’s unable to check the sarcastic bite in his tone as he sets the thread and scissors down. “Did he look scared to you?”

“Yes,” Thor says, and it’s like a clap of thunder. Shaken, Bruce jerks his head to the right to look for mockery in Thor’s eyes immediately. He realises too late that he’s broken his rule. No part of him is prepared for the total lack of judgement or anger in those eyes. Suddenly, who they both are doesn’t matter. It _can’t_ matter when Thor looks so casual and unguarded with his hair fanning out messily around his head. It’s cute, an adjective Bruce is pretty sure should never apply to a ‘god’. “None of his anger was malicious, not until we were fighting a true enemy. He was scared, and he doesn’t have the control that you and I do to stop him from reacting on instinct.” That’s… nonsense. Bruce can’t even begin to let himself think about that, not even for Thor’s sake. It would question too much, and his everyday normal is so fragile that he can’t risk shattering it.

“He punched you,” he reminds Thor as a distraction. Anything to get Thor to stop looking at him like he understands, because he doesn’t and he _can’t_. Thor’s eyes widen slightly. His newly stitched wound has been completely forgotten by both of them. Bruce’s hands hover over it, but he’s not consciously aware of it.

“You remember,” Thor breathes after a short moment where they just… stare at each other. 

“Yeah, I don’t remember much – I never do – but I… I remember that,” Bruce admits sheepishly. “I’m sorry he- Hulk doesn’t _think_ he just… smashes. I don’t have anything against you,” he finishes lamely, desperately hoping it doesn’t come across as a lie. Thor blinks at him, and Bruce’s skin itches. “Hulk probably doesn’t either. He’s just not a people person.” There’s a beat then Thor is… wait, smiling?

“I never thought he did,” Thor says, reaching up to clasp Bruce’s shoulder just as he did earlier. “Hulk is a great warrior, some light competition is good for the soul.” 

“Competition?” Bruce isn’t sure if he’s about to laugh or collapse from how ridiculous this is. He shakes his head helplessly. Hulk is a brute, and one half of a monster that Bruce and his own short fuse makes whole. Despite his total disagreement with Thor, Bruce doesn’t really have the strength to protest it. It’s just good to hear somebody talk who doesn’t hate him for Hulk’s actions. At least he hasn’t ruined his working relationship with Thor. “Well, if you say so,” he mutters, finally dragging his gaze away from Thor’s eyes and back to his own hands.

The wound takes a minute to dress, maybe less than that because Bruce can almost do this on autopilot. He’s sitting back, failing to mask his pride at the neat job, and throwing the used gloves aside awkwardly when Thor shifts and sits up. Although Bruce _intends_ to tell Thor to slow down, to not move around too quickly, the words promptly die in his throat when he turns his head and realises how close Thor is, how earnest he looks. 

The word rises, once again, handsome, before Bruce shakes it off. (It means nothing, he barely knows him and he’s pretty sure Thor is in a relationship. It’s just a simple fact of the world: Thor is Something More Than Handsome and it’s hard not to notice. Even if he were straight, he’d probably have had the same thought.) They both seem to freeze for a second, taking each other in from this new angle. Then Thor puts that hand back on his shoulder for the third time. He’s very tactile. This is the most anybody has touched Bruce in a long time. Three shoulder-clasps are almost overwhelming.

“Hulk saved many people. You were a hero today Banner, do not lose sight of that. You were an excellent comrade in battle, and now a fine physician in its aftermath. What more could anybody ask for in a teammate?” There’s so much warmth in Thor’s voice, and his eyes sparkle with earnest sincerity. Breathing becomes difficult, because it feels like he’s swallowed a marble. It’s been so long since somebody was this nice… since somebody meant it. Tony’s been great but Tony isn’t… nice.

No, that’s wrong. Tony is nice, but he cloaks that niceness behind false indifference and a casual attitude. Bruce understands, he even does it himself sometimes. It keeps people and emotions at a safe distance. Tony’s nice, but this is _nice_ with all the unrestrained enthusiasm of a child complimenting your shoes. Thor doesn’t have anything holding him back, not the slightest inhibition, so Bruce knows he means it. 

Steve is still wary of him, no matter what he says. Natasha… is wonderful, and Bruce could have _killed_ her. Clint is an unknown, and he’ll probably stay that way for a while but that makes sense with what he’s just been through. Tony is Tony. He knows what to make of all of them, and Thor... 

Thor smiles at him, a real smile, maybe the first genuine, beaming smile that’s been directed at Bruce in years, 

He’s starting to figure out what to make of Thor.

### 

It’s not raining in New York. It’s been raining everywhere Bruce has been for the past week, like a personal raincloud sitting over his head, but it isn’t raining in New York.

“I know,” Thor agrees when Bruce repeats that fact again, this time out loud. It’s a neat little piece of information: New York is not fucking wet. It feels like they’ve stumbled onto Eden, salvation. The only other places that weren’t wet were the funerals. He’s struck by a sudden, irrational fear that this is a sign that Thor is about to die too, and he reaches out blindly with his good arm for Thor’s hand. Thor clearly understands his ineffective grasping though, because almost immediately he laces his fingers with Bruce’s. (Or, well, he tries to. His hand is much smaller than Bruce’s now, and isn’t that _weird_? Bruce can remember holding his hand up against Thor’s and marvelling at how much smaller his own was.)

“It was raining in Russia, remember?” Bruce insists, face pressed up against the window at the front of the jet so he can stare up at the stars. Thank god this thing has autopilot. “And at the Pentagon, and in London, and-”

“Yeah, it was.” Thor has also been everywhere Bruce has been for the past week. They haven’t spent more than a few hours a day apart. He’s had a god on one shoulder and a raincloud on the other. 

“What’s so goddamn special about New York?” Bruce’s childlike wonder at seeing clear skies now turns to resentment. He can’t be blamed for his emotions being all over the place tonight.

“Dunno.” Thor shrugs. “Should- should just get rid of it.”

“Pick it up and move it somewhere else,” Bruce suggests. Definitely too much to drink.

“Yeah, yeah.” Thor nods enthusiastically, letting go of Bruce’s hand. For a moment Bruce is frustrated with the loss, but then Thor takes him by the shoulders and pulls him away from the window so he can look him in the eyes. “You’re a genius, Bruce. You’re so smart.” Bruce is about to brag about his PhDs again when from the corner of his eyes he sees the entire world dip outside the jet window. Naturally he assumes that either the jet is in freefall or Earth is being ripped away from them. “What are you doing?” Thor grunts curiously when Bruce reacts to their impending death by instinctively hugging Thor to his chest. Maybe he can protect him. Maybe they can die together. That second option sounds better.

They don’t die together. The jet lands gracefully on the wide balcony / landing pad of Stark Tower, and Bruce realises without any fanfare that it was just descending. He loosens his grip on Thor, but by this point Thor has accepted the surprise hug and is snuggled into his chest like it’s a bed. This would have been a problem a few years ago but now Bruce has the strength of the Hulk, so he just picks Thor up with his good arm and carries him out of the jet (pausing only to let him grab a bottle balanced precariously on a shelf). It feels like a perfectly natural solution. Thor actually cheers, looking down at where his feet are dangling above the ground with undisguised glee. It’s nice to see Thor smile. If Bruce has nothing else left at least he has his uncanny ability to coax a smile from his friend. 

When Thor looks up from his legs again to beam at him, Bruce realises he’s smiling right back. It’s so stupid. Smiling over nothing. Bruce knows, distantly, that this is the first time he’s smiled in almost a full month, and he doesn’t have any reason _to_ smile. But there’s some kind of energy in the air, something about this little adventure they’re on, that makes the rest of his life feel like a bad dream. 

The energy drops immediately when he tries the entrance panel to the tower and finds it dead.

“It’s not going to work,” Bruce realises, putting Thor down and taking the bottle from him. The brief giddiness fades back into despondence as their plan comes to a grinding halt. “There’s no power to this place anymore, nobody lives here. How are we going to-?” 

There’s a crackling sound, and then Thor’s right hand is shimmering. He clenches it into a fist and the ribbons of blue and yellow glow so brightly that Bruce has to shield his eyes. Thor glances back at him, and Bruce can just about make out a smirk through the red snakes the lights have left imprinted on his vision. 

“Oh yeah,” is all Bruce can really say to that, blinking at it like he’d forgotten Thor could do that. His head’s still swimming a little from the alcohol. He’s not Drunk-drunk, healing factor probably (he’s never tried before) won’t let that happen, but he is fuzzy. He’s at the level where everything feels warmer and emotions are twice as strong. His inhibitions are down. Thor is about the same, or so he assumes, because the raccoon and his friends had shown up to the wake with some kind of alcohol from another planet with “enough of a kick to it to get an Asgardian tipsy”. 

God… right, the wake. Bruce wonders if anyone has noticed they’ve gone missing. 

The world is still adjusting to the snap reversal. Just thinking about it makes Bruce’s bad arm ache – which should be impossible with how much of it is just dead nerves and skin. (He wants to wait and see if the healing factor will kick in. If it doesn’t, then it’ll need to either be replaced with a prosthetic or rebuilt from the ground up, but there hasn’t been time for that.) First there was the adjusting, and now funerals.

Every day this week has been a different ‘funeral’. There have been ceremonies around the world, every continent paying their respects to Tony Stark one by one, with his family and friends invited to seemingly every country’s biggest event. They’ve divided up what they can between them, but there aren’t enough of them to go around. At some point Pepper - desperately trying to keep up a strong front for her child, her friends, and now the world - had broken down over the number of rejections she’d had to send. Then, halfway through everyone’s attempts to soothe her, she had suddenly stormed back to the laptop, written out a stock rejection, and sent it as a mass-reply. 

The world is overflowing with gratitude, with grief, but the Avengers don’t have room for it alongside their own. Bruce is dreading the time that’s going to come when the dust has settled, when people move from grieving to responding to his own reviving snap. He doesn’t want the attention, doesn’t deserve it. He survived, isn’t that more than he deserves and less than Nat and Tony did?

The press and the attention and the memorials for Tony have been gaudy, almost offensive. He’d probably like it, but Bruce doesn’t, and he knows the others feel the same way. All of their personal grief has been swallowed up by public grief, by an outpouring of thanks and mourning from people who didn’t even _know_ Tony, and it’s a lie to say that hasn’t frustrated him. He wants to grieve Tony in private, doesn’t want his mourning to be some public display to make the world feel better. He needs time to grieve Anthony Stark, the man who made terrible decisions and had glaring character flaws, but also offered him blueberries and a place to live in the same breath. Not Tony Stark the public figure, or Iron Man the legend. Those two are too perfect, and he almost resents them for their unreality. 

Natasha’s funeral had hurt even more, for the exact opposite reason.

She only got the one funeral, just two days ago. It was small, and what Bruce had craved in Tony’s funerals infuriated him in Natasha’s. Nobody had cared. She was never a big celebrity, that had been the antithesis of her whole job. Natasha had saved lives working in the shadows, had crept around Earth for five years trying to get the band back together to fix this. The turnout at her funeral had been unfairly small. No day of mourning, no huge crowd of civilians, nothing. (Maybe it was fitting, since they didn’t even have a body.) Just them, Natasha’s _family_, and the sound of Clint’s children crying. Natasha’s knowledge, her determination to reunite the team, and her sacrifice made the un-snap possible… and nobody seems to know.

The one upside to Natasha’s quiet funeral was that none of them had to hold back. They’d all internalized their tears for Tony’s, staying strong both for the public and to protect their right to private grief. That wasn’t a problem for Natasha’s funeral. He definitely remembers himself crying, remembers Thor right beside him with the steadiest hand on his shoulder. He remembers Sam struggling to get through his stories about Natasha, then getting up again to help Clint finish his speech when his voice got too shaky to understand. He remembers Fury, Sam, Steve, and Clint standing by the grave while the rest of them walked away, practically statues. Thor had asked him if he’d wanted to stay too. 

He’d wanted to, but he didn’t.

It still feels wrong. The thought of him, an almost-ex, stood with the four of them at her grave? It’s ridiculous. They meant so much to Natasha, and she meant just as much to them. Bruce is just a mistake, somebody that got a little closer than he was ever meant to. They’d both made that clear to each other during the five years of purgatory. He doesn't love Natasha as anything more than a close friend, maybe he never did, he only remembers how it felt when he _believed_ he did. 

That’s not reason enough to stand beside _Clint_ in mourning. (Thor had refuted this later, had stroked his fingers through Bruce’s short hair and made shushing noises until it didn’t matter anymore if he was a mistake or an experience or whatever-the-hell.) So they had walked away. Not even five minutes away from the graveyard and the clear skies had turned to dark, ominous grey, and opened up on all of them.

And now? Now it’s Friday, and they’ve finally reached the end. The last funeral. Tony’s _real_ funeral. No cameras, the public at a distance, just them and the few high-ranking officials who had clawed their way in. (It’s not where Bruce would have chosen to see Ross again for the first time. He’s still upset about it, but today isn’t the day to make a scene.) 

It was a good service, a quiet service… who is he trying to kid? It was overwhelming. It wasn’t the cathartic release of grief he’d hoped it would be. The rain had started again almost as soon as they’d all started dispersing, but Bruce was so numb by that point he barely felt it. His clothes are still a little damp from just _standing_ in it while other people hurried inside, waiting in vain to actually feel the rain on his skin. Maybe it left everybody else numb too. They all left looking shell-shocked, entered the wake looking equally off-balance, and spent the night in almost catatonic silence.

And then Thor, missing in action ever since the guardians had turned up, slid into place beside him at the bar - like he belonged there - with a weary sigh and a whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” Maybe it was the tone of his voice, maybe it was the way he’d sat down, maybe it was something else. Either way, it was instantly clear he didn’t mean ‘go back to our hotel rooms’. Bruce had looked around at the misery dripping from the walls and congealing on the floor, the expressionless faces of people whose grief could not possibly be communicated, and suddenly felt _exhausted_.

It was easy to creep out after Thor, to let Thor seize his hand and drag him from silence and contemplation to the heady freedom of _running_. It was raining outside and he _felt it_ pelt down on his skin. They were laughing before Thor explained his plan, before the jet took off. They’re laughing now, stumbling through the newly opened door and into the tower that used to be theirs. 

Bruce is too big and too old to go sneaking off, let alone giggle childishly about the _naughtiness_ of it all, and the same goes double for Thor. It’s the day of their friend’s _funeral_ and they should _not_ be laughing right now. But somehow the knowledge that he shouldn’t be amused just makes Bruce laugh harder. It’s not even that the situation is funny. It’s more like relieved laughter. He’s so swept up in getting away, just not being _there_ anymore, that he almost can’t care about it. The pressure has been lifted from his chest and everything he’s been holding onto since Thanos snapped his fingers is being released in a swell of noise. It doesn’t matter that, that noise is laughter. 

Or, you know, maybe he really is just that drunk.

Everything else fades to background noise as he watches Thor spread his arms wide and turn in circles in the middle of the empty room: king of all he surveys. He doesn’t care about the funerals, the deaths, the trauma, or any of the other shit he’s spent every waking moment viciously caring about for five years now. For now, for however long this lasts, it doesn’t exist. They’ve escaped, literally run away from it.

“Ohhhh,” Thor sighs, his shoulders relaxing as he drops his arms. “This place,” he chuckles again, briefly, “looks like shit.” 

“Worse than shit!” Bruce takes a swig from the bottle Thor has… acquired from the bar. Bruce has barely touched a drop of alcohol in his life before tonight, and he almost certainly never will again. He’s been willing himself to get carried away by it, to drown his sorrows like everybody else has tonight, but it’s not working, and not just because of the pesky healing factor refusing to let it linger for more than an hour. No matter how hard he tries to convince himself he’s fine and he’s magically gotten over his terrifying memories of alcohol he just… hasn’t. It tastes bitter on his tongue, and not in the way Rhodes had warned him it would - hovering over all the drinkers with an experienced but reluctant air that had reminded Bruce so much of his mother that he’d poured his first drink down the sink. (It had taken half an hour for him to order one again, the depressing reality of the wake pressing on him until he was once again desperate enough to try anything.) 

Thor must know all of that, somehow, because he’s swiped lemonade rather than alcohol. They’re only drinking for the sensation.

“Aren’t they going to build something new here?” Thor gestures around the grey, empty purgatory of the tower that’s sheltering them from reality. 

Bruce shakes his head. “Hasn’t been any construction in five years. New owner got-”

“Snapped,” Thor finishes. He holds his hand out for the drink. Bruce hands it over without wiping the neck and Thor immediately brings it up to his mouth. He tosses his head back a little too dramatically to take a big gulp, shaking out his mane like he’s in a commercial. If Bruce’s gaze lingers on the curve of his neck, the droplets spilling on his beard, and he ponders whether the lemonade might taste different if he kisses it off Thor’s lips, then that’s Bruce’s business. He’d like to say it’s because he’s tipsy, but he’s had these thoughts too many times since Sakaar to kid himself. 

“City’s talking about buying it back and turning this place into a memorial,” Bruce manages to say without tripping over his own thoughts. 

“Stark would love that.” Thor takes another drink and immediately begins to pace, because now he’s said Tony’s name and that’s dangerous territory tonight. “A big monument to him, to all of us.”

Bruce eyes the empty walls, the spot where the bar once stood. “Seems kinda pointless to me. They’ve stripped out everything that was ours already. Just a shell now.” Maybe that’s just accurate to the team. Everything’s gone. The grief is sweeping in again, but they’re not talking about that tonight. It’s an unspoken rule. Not the death, not their guilt. So, instead of talking about it, Bruce moves to take the drink from Thor just for the comfort in the familiar action. 

“’s not all gone,” Thor says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand now he’s stood still again. Bruce drinks just to keep his mouth from opening and offering to do that for him. “Don’t need the furniture here for the memories.” He suddenly bounds away from Bruce. It’s only when Thor isn’t right in front of him that Bruce realises: they were standing so close the bottle had almost touched Thor’s head. “Like here, remember?” He gestures at a spot on the wall that faces the windows and balcony. “When Stark wouldn’t stop humming so Natasha threw a bottle from the bar at him, but he dodged and it-”

“Shattered on his one-of-a-kind, million-dollar landscape!” Bruce joins in and they both finish together, their voices comfortably overlapping because they have a crystal-clear memory of Tony’s rant. If he focuses his mind, he can still hear Tony yelling, can still see the damp canvas and the look on Natasha’s face. It was the only time she was ever lost for words. “God when was that? Just after we started rounding up the last of Hydra?” Thor’s smiles drops slightly and he turns away from Bruce to stare at the wall.

“Yes, it must have been. I remember you jumping to Natasha’s defence a little too quickly,” Thor says, and there’s _something_ in his voice. It’s not the same something that was there the last time he brought up the worst interpersonal decision any two avengers ever made. The strange bitterness is gone, replaced with a reserved quiet.

Bruce ignores it, because talking things out would be the emotionally healthy thing to do and he doesn’t _want_ that. He wants to be selfish, self-destructive, for just one stupid night.

“So what are we doing here?” He asks instead, distracting both of them and taking another drink.

“Dunno.” Thor shrugs, making his way to the right. “I just wanted to get away, and I couldn’t think of anywhere to go but here.” He pauses and frowns at Bruce thoughtfully. “The sofas were here, right?” Bruce knows every inch of this room, he could have walked it blind, and he can almost see phantom outlines of the furniture as it was ten years ago. But he doesn’t get a chance to say that, to tell Thor that he’s absolutely right, before Thor flops backward onto the ground. He sees it in slow motion, clamps down on an urge to mutter ‘timber’ as Thor falls back and hits the ground with a rough ‘bang’. It’s sobering. 

“Jesus Christ, Thor,” Bruce hisses out between his teeth, and hurries over. He drops down to his knees, abandons the bottle on the ground, and holds his index finger up in front of Thor’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Thor squints at him, and then rolls his eyes.

“Three,” he huffs, and when Bruce visibly starts to panic, he smirks. “Alright, alright, I’m just kidding. One.”

“That’s not funny man.” Bruce slaps his shoulder, just lightly, and then sits back, sagging with relief. “How long until you sober up and get your real sense of humour back?” Thor shrugs, so Bruce just sighs and makes himself comfortable, tucking his legs beneath him. There’s something almost familiar about the positioning. 

“Let’s just… talk.”

“About what?” Bruce asks, a little too softly as Thor’s hand lands on his knee. Thor shrugs.

“I don’t know… favourite mission?” 

They stay there for so long that Bruce loses track of time, just reminiscing. It should be painful, but it almost isn’t. It’s nice to talk about these memories without the pressure to talk about the pain that comes with them, or the need to live up to a mythology. Not all their memories of the Avengers are good, but they can’t exactly tell that harsh truth to a grieving world. They weren’t the best of friends; they were something more complex than that. Saving the world together bonds you in a strange way. Nobody else can possibly understand, so Bruce won’t try to explain it to them. It’s just him and Thor right now, and they _are_ friends. Friends who don’t need to explain their complicated feelings about the Avengers.

They’re talking for so long that they sober up a little, their healing factors being what they are, shifting from energetic to comfortably sleepy. Inevitably, because it’s starting to feel like every single aspect of their lives inevitably cycles back to one day, they end up back in New York, 2012. Thor’s hand is still on his knee, at some point he’s started toying with Thor’s hair with one huge finger, as gently as a breeze. He’s too tired to second-guess himself right now.

“Remember the first time we were in here? Just after we’d captured-” Bruce freezes, Loki’s name like a rock in his chest. Thor smiles. Is it a smile simply because the corners of your mouth turn up? Can Thor’s expression possibly be called a smile when it’s so heart-breaking? There isn’t anything they can talk about now that isn’t connected to a loss. Do they have _anything_ left?

“Captured Loki,” he finishes. “I forgot that he’d stabbed me, didn’t I?” Bruce remembers the imperfect circle of red. He remembers his own panic that had come from a lack of understanding. He hadn’t known Thor then, hadn’t known about his healing factor or truly understood his strength. Now he panics when Thor is hurt for an entirely different reason, because he does know Thor, and he knows what he’d be losing with him.

“You know, now I’ve heard the snake story that actually makes a lot more sense.” Thor’s smile morphs back into a real one. It’s still sad, but the sadness is confined to the edges. “You really scared us at the time.”

“Yes, I remember.” Thor glances over at where the bar used to be, and Bruce doesn’t need to look to feel the phantom of Steve’s exasperated headshake. “But, in fairness, you were scaring me too.” Bruce feels his face twist in confusion, but he’s only distantly aware of himself doing it. “Don’t you remember the state you were in? You could barely lift your head up.”

“It was a rough hulk-out.” Bruce shrugs. “Exhaustion, hunger, aching, disorientation, they were all pretty standard for me after Hulk made an appearance. It just hit me a little harder some days than others.” It was his everyday reality, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with it anymore.

“But I didn’t know that,” Thor reminds him. “I know that _now_, but at the time I thought something had gone wrong, or that you were ill.” The hand on his knee clutches a little tighter, pulling the fabric taut. Bruce is certain Thor wouldn’t have cared this much back then, surely he’s only concerned in retrospect because he cares about Bruce _now_. 

“Honestly I didn’t think you were paying any attention to me,” Bruce admits.

“You don’t remember when you put your head down on your arms?” Thor frowns at him. “I made a face like-”

“- like that, yeah.” Bruce smiles, reaches out to smooth out the frown lines on Thor’s forehead the way Thor used to smooth his green veins. “You were worried, huh?” Thor nods, one side of his mouth quirked up slightly as Bruce’s hand goes back to his hair.

“I wanted to check on you, but you were so…” Bruce knows the next word is going to be bad just because Thor hesitates, “unapproachable?” There’s a beat of silence before Thor winces and Bruce, not so much outraged as stunned, opens his mouth.

“Unapproachable?!” His first thought is that it’s because of the Hulk, but it’s hard to feel any worries about that when they’re merged and there’s no more risk of Hulk popping out.

“You didn’t want to talk to anyone!” Thor holds up his free hand in a placating gesture.

“Because I was exhausted from hulking out and really self-conscious! And besides,” he points at Thor accusingly with one big green hand, “you were intimidating.”

“I was intimidating?” Thor parrots, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind. “I was fairly new to Midgard and I had been stabbed.”

“You were a warrior prince with like, muscles coming out of your ears and long, flowing blonde hair. People like me-” Bruce gestures at himself, then pauses. “… I mean, nerdy scientists don’t talk to people like you. Big green guys talking to you? Maybe.”

He’s waiting for Thor to retort, to make fun of him or say something inspiring to counteract his self-depreciation. He’s not expecting Thor to look away from him with clouded eyes, to almost shrink into himself and inhale a little heavily and- oh. 

“Hey,” Bruce taps him on the shoulder, strokes two fingers through his hair a little less subtly. “I stopped being intimidated by you when I was stitching you back together. I just meant that I had a really low opinion of myself,” he still does, not relevant, “and I thought I’d just be annoying you.” It goes unsaid that it has nothing to do with who Thor is now, much less the way he looks. A lot of thoughts along the lines of ‘your thighs, man, Jesus Christ’ are going to come out if Bruce opens his mouth about that, and he won’t be able to put them back in. The only difference in Thor that matters is the way his presence has shrunk. His easy confidence that had allowed him to command attention from anywhere in the room… it’s weaker. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’s coming back a little now he’s been reminded of his worthiness. 

“You could never annoy me,” Thor says, so softly Bruce’s chest feels like it’s full of balloons. “Well, actually…” The balloons pop and Bruce punches his shoulder, light and friendly, and Thor’s smile is back. (Not his old smile, the one that turns Bruce’s stomach to jelly and lights up a room, but the smile that’s normal for him these days.) 

“In fairness, you had good reason to find me unapproachable. I’m still sorry about Hulk punching you,” Bruce says, rubbing at his face because his eyes are starting to sting. Thor shakes his head.

“Hulk is-” he freezes, mouth hanging open around the unfinished sentence. Thor shoots him a look that Bruce has trouble deciphering, but files away under ‘regretful’. “Hulk… _was_ a good friend, once I got to know him.” 

“Friend?” Bruce makes a face and – okay, he knows exactly what the look on Thor’s face this time means: frustration. 

“He was,” Thor insists. 

“Hulk was mindless. All he knew was how to fight.” Bruce has more to say, but Thor’s frown stops him in his tracks. It’s not malicious, he thinks. “What?”

“Hulk complained to me on Sakaar that I was your friend, not his friend. He seemed… genuinely upset about it.” Now Thor’s frown fades, and he looks away from Bruce. “He was making friends, he had his own desires, he chased me down because he wanted me to stay with him. I suppose I just…” Thor runs a hand over his face. “It just felt, to me, like Hulk was self-aware, like he was his own person. And now he’s…” He looks back at Bruce again.

_Dead._

Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic.

It’s not that Bruce hasn’t considered this before, quite the opposite in fact. If he thinks about this for too long something that feels awfully close to guilt starts to gnaw away at him, because he’s come to the same conclusion Thor has. But by the time he came to that conclusion, it was too late. Now he can’t think about it. He can’t take the risk that this breakthrough was anything other than a good idea, because it’s too late for it to be a bad one and Bruce is so _tired_ of doing bad with science. He just wants this to be the solution, the thing that solves all his self-doubt and hatred. It’s poetic enough on the surface, bringing the two halves together to make a whole.

Except… when did he start thinking of hulk as half of him? That’s not right, is it? He was a whole before Hulk, why would he need- no. Isn’t he supposed to be the whole now? Shouldn’t they be an us, or- 

Bruce shakes his head. Fiercely.

“Can we… not talk about that?” He tries, weakly, because he knows Thor will understand. “Someday, yeah. Not tonight.” 

“Sure, sure,” Thor nods, not quite meeting his eyes. “Where were we?”

“Your stab wound,” Bruce redirects him quickly, but Thor shakes his head.

“No, no I think we were past that. You mentioned stitching me up, maybe we were there?” 

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees.

Silence.

“Thanks for that,” Thor says, after an uncharacteristically awkward pause.

“No problem, you needed it.” The awkwardness stacks, and Bruce hates it. They’re trying so hard not to get bogged down in everything that’s gone wrong, they don’t need this. “Besides, Tony told me to take care of you.”

“The same applied to me.” Thor’s face scrunches up, and maybe Bruce is getting _too_ sleepy because the thought that he looks cute rises easily to the forefront of his mind. “I don’t think I did a good job though. You could have passed out or died in the shower, you were in there a while.” 

The awkwardness snaps, Bruce laughs, and they’re right back to where they belong, what he needs tonight.

“You did fine.” Bruce goes back to playing with Thor’s hair now things feel good again. Maybe he imagines it, but it feels like Thor pushes his head up into it slightly. “You actually made me feel a lot better.”

“You too.” Thor catches Bruce’s hand when it’s trailing to the tips of his hair and squeezes. “I felt a lot guiltier than I let on about the destruction.” He turns his head to stare at their joined hands, as if he’s just as surprised by it as Bruce is, and they stay like that for several quiet moments. It’s fine, it’s comfortable in a way any other human contact would not be. Thor has a way of putting him at ease. “Strange to think we barely knew each other, isn’t it?”

“Bizarre,” Bruce agrees. He can’t imagine not understanding Thor now, struggles to remember how he was ever intimidated by him. Despite how complicated everything else has become, his friendship with Thor has stayed simple and easy. (Maybe that’s why he’s so determined to ignore the direction his thoughts about Thor have been headed since he reappeared in Wakanda and molten relief had raced through his veins. Complication is the last thing they need right now.) Sometimes it feels like something happened on Sakaar, like maybe somebody connected their minds or something ridiculous like that. “You know I was actually nervous about touching you?”

They both look at their joined hands again and chuckle. “Well, I’m glad you were able to get over it before I bled out.” 

“Didn’t get over it.” Bruce shakes his head. “You got over it for me, remember?” Thor blinks at him for a minute, then his eyes widen with recognition and he smiles. It’s a soft, secret thing, almost too private even though they’re already alone in this room. He takes Bruce’s hand he’s holding and presses it against his stomach, onto the thick layers of his outfit. There’s something shockingly intimate about it, even more so than when he was touching bare skin. It’s like reaching out for a live wire, the electrifying feel of Thor breathing beneath his hand. 

“I still think about your I’m Concentrating Very Hard face every so often,” Thor begins, his voice curiously cautious. He narrows his eyes, sticks his tongue out ever so slightly between his lips. Bruce feels his face heat up. “Adorable,” Thor comments, like it’s nothing, in a dangerous second before he seems to suddenly remember himself and where he is. His eyes flick to Bruce – who, like an _idiot_, is just sitting there blankly because he has no idea how to respond to that - for a second before moving away again, and then he’s deflecting with some other comment. “I can’t remember you ever concentrating like that again.” When Thor moves his own hand away, Bruce doesn’t move his, keeps the pressure up. If it comforts Thor he’ll keep his hand there forever. (Or at least until they get up.)

“Well… I didn’t want to hurt you,” Bruce says. He means it as just that, an explanation, but he feels something else carry through in his voice: an explanation for some other behaviour, the distance he’s kept since Wakanda. It isn’t intentional, but with his mind busy recreating their quiet moment from 2012 he doesn’t have the brain power to spare to restrain himself from bad, unconscious ideas. 

“Weren’t we sitting just like this?” Thor asks, sounding far away. Apparently he’s just as preoccupied with the memory as Bruce is. 

“I think so,” Bruce mumbles, utterly distracted now. He’s re-evaluating, looking at that moment with changed eyes and wondering what it would mean to him _today_ instead of what it had meant then. It’s only significance at the time was that he hadn’t been alone with Thor before. The tension between them had been there because of their unfamiliarity. Bruce is more than confident that there would be a different kind of tension if it happened again today. The clinical assessment of Thor’s injury gives way (in his imagination) to a heated, lingering gaze on bare skin. He glances down at where his hand is still resting on Thor’s stomach. Past and present bleed into each other. It hadn’t meant anything, but it would mean something and none of this should make sense… but it does.

Thor isn’t looking at him, he’s staring up at the ceiling. Bruce doesn’t dare guess where his thoughts are at. His own are preoccupied with the trust Thor had shown, and the old smiles on his face that he never wears anymore, and how close they had been when Thor had sat up, his face near enough for Bruce to see every line and detail and-

“I wish I’d kissed you,” Thor sighs. Everything comes from somewhere, but the somewhere this comes from is uncharted and unmapped. He breathes it out like they’ve talked about this before, like it’s old news and not life changing. 

The carefully constructed gears, springs, and pins of Bruce’s reality come crashing down around him.

“What?” He croaks. Thor isn’t laughing, or grinning up at the ceiling, he’s just staring forward with a lazy, unconcerned look. For a second Bruce almost believes he imagined it. Then Thor slowly turns to look at him, that same relaxed half-smile on his face.

“I wish I’d kissed you,” Thor repeats, voice slow and heavy like he’s about to fall asleep. “Think how different everything would be.” Okay so he didn’t imagine it, this is happening. Something he hasn’t allowed himself to consider once in five years is throwing itself at him and expecting him to respond.

“You don’t mean that,” Bruce breathes, trying to regain some control of the situation. He can’t mean that. 

Thor looks away before he slowly nods. “No,” he says, and for a second the word makes sense again… but then he continues, “I was in love with Jane, I barely knew you. What I mean is I wish we could have that moment now.” He sighs again, bringing one hand down to rest on top of Bruce’s own, as if Bruce isn’t too stunned to move away. “We weren’t ready for it and we wasted it. Just like everything else, it’s gone before we get a chance to appreciate it.” His eyes are unfocused, looking for something that isn’t there, someone dead and something destroyed. 

Bruce is tired of seeing Thor look so small, so sad. He just wants him to be happy, to see that old smile on Thor’s face, to look at him and feel _free_ again. He wants every moment to be the two of them running in the rain and laughing. Maybe it’s selfish to want Thor to be the person who made him feel good about himself again, but he wants, and he wants, and he wants, and he never gets, and he’s _tired_. 

“So-” Bruce licks his lips, freezes up for a minute when Thor’s eyes lock with his. Is he really going to do this? “So kiss me _now_ then,” he says, a little hoarse because he never expected he’d get to say these words. For sure, he’s thought about them, but saying them?

Thor’s eyes go wide and he blinks three times exactly. The split-second shower of sparks from his shoulders mirror the tiny, miniscule spark in his good eye. “Kiss me,” Bruce repeats, more confident this time, feeding off the energy of that spark. Because surely that’s what Thor means, right? Beneath his confusing way of putting it. He wants the _right moment_ so kissing him can be easy, the kind of moment Bruce is pretty sure they deserve, and certain they’ll never be given.

Thor sits up slowly, leaning back first on his elbows and then his hands. The gaze of his suddenly clear eyes is purposeful and fervent, but his body moves hesitantly, and the contradiction does nothing to soothe the tremble in Bruce’s hand. it’s hard to breathe or sense anything beyond Thor. He wants to turn his face away from that intensity. He wants to collapse into that passion and never, ever step back from it, to press close to Thor until he forgets everything that isn’t him. It’s a terrifying moment where everything feels like it’s come unhinged, and there’s nothing to grab onto to steady himself. The world has seemed intimidatingly big lately, but it’s just as scary and confusing when that world narrows down to Thor. It isn’t easy, and it certainly isn’t the perfect moment of clarity Thor was hoping for.

Sometimes, if you aren’t going to be given something, you just have to take it.

There are other reasons it’s not easy, Bruce realises as Thor finally closes the last space between them in a rush. Hulk lips are kind of… oversized. Acceptable at best for pecks and closed mouth kisses, and romantic stuff that this _isn’t_. This is desperate, and instantly messy. He doesn’t care about the lack of finesse, the almost hilarious way their mouths don’t fit together. Judging by Thor’s enthusiasm, the brief crack of electricity when their mouths connect, he doesn’t either. They’d laugh if this was something better, softer. Instead they groan - one unanimous, desperate noise - close their eyes, and mercifully _forget_ everything beyond their other 4 senses.

Distantly Bruce knows that this isn’t like him, that he’d prefer his first kiss with Thor to be gentle, peaceful, and happy. Not bittersweet and everything - right down to the awkward way their mouths come together - tinged with loss and what they don’t have. 

He doesn’t particularly care, though, that it isn’t like him. Who is he, anyway? Is there a concrete definition of what this Bruce-Hulk person is? His existence seems like a joke, but Thor’s mouth against his, the awkward, uncomfortable scrape of his teeth, the occasional spark from his arms, and his hands gripping the fabric of Bruce’s jacket in tight fists are _real_. So he brings his good arm around Thor’s shoulders to hold him closer, and Thor makes a noise against his mouth that could be a restrained sob. Bruce is scared to ask. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Because this is selfish at its core, as taking always must be.

Thor clutches and presses and _clings_ at Bruce until finally he gives in and drops onto his back, opening his eyes briefly. Thor rolls with him, half pulled along by Bruce’s arm, and their kisses are already so open and artless that neither of them thinks to pause while they resettle in a new angle. With his eyes open he can see the way the lights in the room flicker on and off, the dark room bathed in blue every time the lights die again as Thor's sparks fall around them in a shower, never landing _on_ them. Thor seems ignorant to it. He keeps kissing whatever’s nearest to his mouth (neck, chin) and Bruce understands his desperation, because pausing would mean thinking and he doesn’t want to think. That’s the opposite of the goal here. So instead they go on breathing harshly and uncomfortably against each other. 

Bruce winces as Thor adjusts on top of him and puts a knee right about where Bruce guesses he still has a kidney. Thor almost outright bites him when Bruce’s hand tangles a little too harshly in his hair, too busy reining in a harsh, sudden line of electricity to control his teeth.. There’s no talking, no communication beyond those animalistic noises and it’s so… _Hulk_ that Bruce has to laugh against Thor’s mouth, which earns him a frown and an open-mouthed kiss on his neck that coaxes him into closing his eyes again. 

They’re almost manic, not in their speed but in their single-minded devotion to this one fragment of experience, fierce and desperate. Two people clinging to each other in the eye of a hurricane, too afraid to reacquaint themselves with the danger on all sides and stubbornly, stupidly convinced that this human desperation is all they have. It feels like Bruce is spinning out of control, and the only thing he has to tether himself with is Thor. Everything has gone to hell, everything beyond this moment is the hurricane, and he’s almost terrified to let go of Thor and go back to it. They’re in a speeding car, hurtling along the autobahn, and breaking apart will slam on the brakes and wreck them both.

Thor trembles. Gently (because although this is about taking, that vulnerable movement reminds him that it’s still _Thor_, and Bruce aches with how much he wishes he could give him) he strokes one hand through Thor’s hair. It's stiff and rough with static, and he knows his own hair is the same. 

Bruce is so focused that he doesn’t even realise he’s started crying. He’s only drawn out of his frenzy when he notices _Thor_ is crying. The uncomfortable wetness on his face, the shaking shoulders, and the noises that occasionally slip out slot together - like a jigsaw puzzle Bruce hadn’t realised he was assembling. He’d blamed all of it on Thor being just as overwhelmed as he is, but when they come together, they point to something else, and then he’s noticing the stinging in his own eyes, the lump in his throat.

That, at last, gets him to open his eyes properly. There’s a squeal of brakes somewhere on the autobahn as Bruce _sees_ the state Thor’s in and pulls away. Thor startles, and the lights in the room (out of control, surging, and white hot in their brightness now) shatter.

Thor leans back from his face, drawing in heavy, heaving breaths, and he stares with the wide eyes of a wounded animal. His eyes are almost as red and wrecked as his lips, but for an entirely different reason. Frozen, his hands stay fisted in Bruce’s shirt, clutching at his chest.

They sit quietly for a moment, struggling to take their fill of oxygen. Thor trembles every so often, and that’s the only sign he’s still crying. It’s almost silent, and Bruce has no idea _why_. Thor seems like he should be a loud crier, but then… Thor’s never actually let him see him cry properly before. Not like this. Maybe he naturally holds himself back, maybe he’s so broken-up inside that even his crying is unnatural, maybe-

Thor’s face crumples. He buries his head in Bruce’s chest, and it looks like a surrender. Bruce wraps his arm around Thor, nuzzles against his hair, and they both make pathetic, miserable noises. The mania is gone, just like that. The desperation remains, but it’s different. It’s not a need, it’s a pulsing ache to be held, to feel better. No more sloppy kissing, they don’t have the energy for that. All they can do for a long time is lay there and hold each other. Bruce isn’t sure if he’s giving or taking anymore. Maybe it’s both. 

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this,” Thor mumbles. He sounds devastated and Bruce shushes him because it doesn’t _matter_, he doesn’t need to explain it. There’s only so much any one person can take before they break. Nobody can control when that break happens. “I wanted it to be special, I wanted-” He cuts himself off, and makes a sound that could be a whine if he was anyone but _Thor_. 

He’s talking about their first kiss, Bruce realises only when Thor looks up at him with apology written all over his face. 

“… Me too,” Bruce says, and it’s true. He just hadn’t realised it until now, confronted with the knowledge that he’s been allowed to want that this whole time. “I’m sorry.” He’s ruined it. This was his stupid idea and look where it’s gotten them. Crying and clinging to each other like scared children. 

“I wanted to be better before I started anything.” Thor ignores his apology, too wrapped up in his own mind to hear it. “I wanted to be what you deserve-”

“I don’t deserve,” Bruce’s voice wobbles, and he squeezes his eyes against the fierce stinging, “anything.” He doesn’t deserve to be alive when Tony and Natasha aren’t. Tony was smarter than him, Tony had a family, Tony had solved time travel in his garage. Natasha had dragged them all back together again, refused to let them splinter off while Bruce had walked away from everyone, too ashamed and aware of how _useless_ he had been. The Avengers had been his new family too, he’d been just as alone as Natasha – it was one of the reasons they’d bonded. But Natasha had stood by her family, Bruce hadn’t.

“You do. You do,” Thor tells him softly, coaxes his eyes open again with a hand on his cheek. “You didn’t let it break you, you stayed so strong and I just-”

“Does this look strong to you?!” Bruce manages to hiss, though he feels like he might choke around the miserable sounds he’s holding back. Thor shushes him, and for another long while the room is filled with nothing but faint pitiful sounds as they clutch at each other. This was a mistake. All of it. He realises that now. It isn’t what either of them need. Nothing they’ve done tonight has been _good for them_. All they’ve done is run in circles, pursued by their own shadows. He was so desperate for relief he didn’t stop to consider consequences. You put pressure on an open wound to stop the bleeding, you don’t ignore it and hope it will go away if you think about something else.

Thor deserves better than being a distraction. Bruce realises now that this isn’t even what he _wants_. It’s Natasha all over again, only _worse_ this time because he wants something better with Thor. He doesn’t want another messy “help me feel better” hook-up where nobody is communicating, he doesn’t want to feel bad about Thor whenever he thinks of him. He wants Thor’s reality, not an escape. 

“I thought,” Thor clears his throat, “that- well, it was just a stupid dream,” he sighs. “Just a daydream, after you all came up with your time travel plan, but-” He sniffs, and Bruce pets his thick hair, imitates the hushing noises Thor had made after he’d used the gauntlet. (Even the memory of Thor’s comfort has the same impact as a physical, gentle touch.)

“Go on,” he presses when Thor’s recovered himself. One of Thor’s loose hands forms a fist again.

“I thought that, maybe, perhaps… if we won, I’d do it then,” Thor rushes out the words like a secret that’s managed to kick down a door in his throat, or maybe his mind. Bruce doesn’t bother to correct him with a gentle reminder that they _did_ win. It doesn’t feel like they won. “When everyone was celebrating, when I’d redeemed myself.” Gradually, his voice is growing stronger with use. 

“… Like a big movie kiss?” Bruce asks. He’s not sure why he’s encouraging this when he knows the could-have-been and the wishful thinking is just going to hurt them. He’d like to think about a world where none of this is happening for a moment, where he hasn’t fucked up. He knows _how_ he’s fucked up tonight but he doesn’t have the strength to learn from it, like a decent person. “In the middle of everyone reuniting, we-”

“Yeah,” Thor agrees quietly. “Just a daydream.” His eyes drift to Bruce’s bad arm, and the look on his face grows even more heart-breaking. “Stupid plan.”

There’s a roar of thunder outside, a flash of light, and Bruce tilts his head back to finally look away from Thor and back into Hurricane Reality. 

It’s raining in New York.

He has no idea how long it’s been raining for. He was a little busy, you see, trying to sink into Thor and never resurface. Thor glances away from the windows guiltily when he looks back to him. A lot of pieces fall into place.

“At the funerals…” Bruce blurts out, his voice rough, before he can come up with something less vague to say. Thor understands though, of course he does. He nods, manages to convey utter misery with a quiet sniff. “It did feel unnatural. It always rained around the funeral and never on it.”

“Wasn’t easy,” Thor croaks, the shake in his cracked voice sounding painful. “But I didn’t want to rain on everybody.” _Didn’t want to disturb them,_ Bruce thinks, and his chest aches at the thought of Thor, surrounded by people outpouring their grief together, isolated and holding his own misery back with just his self-control.

“You should have said,” Bruce says quietly, and he brings his hand up to cup Thor’s face, trying to stroke the tears away the same way Thor used to smooth his green veins out. Thor just shakes his head.

Everyone’s asleep by the time they return the jet. They part awkwardly for their rooms, neither of them quite sure what to say. Bruce doesn’t sleep well. He stays up all night planning what he’s going to say to Thor in the morning: the big apology he’s going to give for ruining the one good thing they could have had left, for upsetting Thor, for putting momentary relief ahead of what they both needed, for… for everything. He means to go to Thor’s room bright and early, but then it’s dawn, and the birds are chirping. A small bed has never looked so inviting. He wakes up at midday. Thor doesn’t answer when he goes to his room. 

So they don’t talk about it, and then Thor leaves Earth with the raccoon and his friends. He doesn’t even say goodbye. Bruce has to find this out from Valkyrie. 

_“Take care of each other. Take care of each other. Take care of each other.”_ Tony’s command from long ago echoes in his head. But they haven’t taken care of each other, have they? And now Thor is gone.

### 

### 

The best part about not being permanently big and green anymore, is that less people notice him. Even though he’s technically the guest of honour, Bruce has been able to lean against this wall and sip his water for about half an hour now. Nobody’s given him a second glance, and why would they? He’s just some guy in glasses and an ill-fitting suit - because he’s never cared much for them and his wardrobe is still… recovering, let’s say, from his stint as Green And Smart. The most interesting thing about him is his sling, but it’s black and blends in with his suit.

He doesn’t even know who’s throwing this party. That’s bad, he should be able to remember the new owner of Avengers Tower after all, but the name escapes him. Oscorp? Baxter? Some corporation that he doesn’t care about, and that obviously doesn’t care about him if it’s willing to gut his old home and turn it into… this. A glance at the six statues lining the walls reminds him once again that he hates corporations, doesn’t want to see the room where he and the avengers bonded turned into this mockery. The “Avengers Conference Lounge”, named in their honour and intended to provide some relief for accountants in suits in-between their meetings. _New age staff-room,_ Bruce thinks somewhat bitterly, looking over at the pool table. It’s right in the middle of the Iron Man and Captain America statues, on the left and right walls respectively. That was where their sofas used to be.

The worst part of it all isn’t the shining lights, the statues, the pool table, the red carpeting “in memory of Iron Man”, the bar with Tony’s carefully curated liquor collection replaced with slight variations of the same damn wine, the way the unique architecture has been altered to ‘open up the room’, the blinds on the windows, or even the ugly logos that are now plastered everywhere. No. By far the worst part of this room is the _fucking_ painting hanging over the bar. Bruce can’t even look at it again for fear his veins are going to put on a show. It’s a portrait of the six of them, and it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. Steve poses with an American flag, which is so grossly out of character he can’t look at it without laughing, and the rest of them aren’t much better. He isn’t even on it, just a heavily exaggerated Hulk.

When he recalls the borderline messianic glow outlining the Iron Man suit, and the infinity gauntlet it’s wearing, he can understand why Pepper turned down her guest of honour invite. It’s not her job to be the avengers’ First Lady. It’s not her job to keep mourning Tony publicly for the rest of her life in a never-ending show. Being on his own has been tough, but he can’t ask Pepper to put herself through it all for him. (Certainly not when he’s kept in touch but not actually seen her in person for almost a year.)

He doesn’t want to be here, and the new owners probably don’t want him here either all things considered. But they’re out of luck because Tony’s dead, and Steve… people don’t talk about Steve. Natasha’s dead, Clint doesn’t leave his farmhouse these days, all of the ‘new avengers’ are too busy saving other planets or ruling kingdoms, Thor is…. So, if you want an avenger to be your guest of honour for good publicity, you’ve got Banner. Or Hulk, if you’re annoying.

Bruce resists the urge to sigh, because sighing would attract attention, and then somebody might realise who he is. Bruce by himself may not be anybody’s favourite avenger, but he’s still ‘The _Last_ Avenger’. (Thanks for the inaccurate nickname Daily Bugle, you piece of shit.) They’ll take him because he _was_ popular when he was merged, or because he once breathed the same air as The Big Three.

(His eyes drift to the sofas- no, the pool table, again and he tries to clamp down on the memory of panting, intermingled breaths. The same air indeed.)

Well, anyone hoping to catch greatness from him will be sorely disappointed. It’s been a long time since he’s seen anyone from ‘the good old days’. He sees Shuri sometimes, and he spends well over half the year in New Asgard, but nobody from the pre-Ultron days talks now. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop remembering things he hasn’t thought about in a year and a half. This place is full of memories of the old team.

_Thor_, his brain supplies unhelpfully. _Memories of Thor._

It’s making him intensely aware of how alone he is, even as he cringes away whenever somebody glances at him.

It’s not that he’s opposed to having a conversation. There’s just nobody there whose company he’d like. ‘Spider-Man’ received an open invitation, and he knows Clint was put onto the guest list, but they’ve both made the same decision as Pepper. Bruce still isn’t sure why he didn’t. Loneliness has been his everyday for a year and a half now, and he’s never been a ‘party’ kind of guy. Maybe he was hoping somebody he did want to talk to would come, or maybe it was a sense of duty, because he’d already known deep down that they wouldn’t.

He checks his watch and sighs again. It’s been over half an hour, that’s long enough to be a satisfactory appearance. This whole thing was a bad idea. He can leave now and put it all behind him. It’s not an avengers themed party without Steve and Sam giggling on the balcony, gossiping about everybody else. Natasha isn’t drinking men three times her size under the table while Clint runs a betting ring. Tony isn’t bragging and putting on a show and getting chased around by Rhodes and Pepper. Worst of all, there’s no Thor, and that’s not just Bruce’s complicated feelings talking. Thor could light up a party without trying, always in the centre of it having the time of his life. Not even Tony could keep up with Thor.

No, it’s not the same without any of them. So Bruce decides to go, but something makes him pause. While he’s been buried in his memories something’s changed in the air of the room. When he picks up on the frantic whispering, and the way everyone’s staring at the elevator, he automatically tenses, ready to either run for his life or turn green.

Until now the crowd has been concentrated by the bar, but they’re slowly beginning to move toward the entrance. Some people rush forward, others trail like phantoms behind them, and the sway of the crowd is strong enough to turn Bruce’s head too. He leans forward, steps away from the wall, and looks past the throng of people to the source. (It’s one of those occasions where he wishes he still had Hulk’s height.) He abandons his glass on the tray of a waiter who’s following the current of the crowd.

“Esteemed guests,” a smarmy man that Bruce _thinks_ is the person responsible for him getting dragged here grabs a microphone. “We have an unexpected honour.” 

Bruce hears the name, but it isn’t a real possibility according to his understanding of the world. So, he’s somehow still _surprised_ when some people shift and he sees Thor stood beside Smarmy Corporate Man. The roaring in his ears is so loud he mistakes it for a cheer from an excited, charged crowd. (Thor has that effect on people, living electricity that he is.) He looks out of breath, rushed, and judging by his jumper and sweatpants he wasn’t expecting to be at a party tonight. 

Thor is _smiling_, something once commonplace that’s now momentous. It’s not quite the shining brightness he used to have, but even a lit matchstick is brighter than the dull emptiness of Thor’s good eye last year.

Like a moth, Bruce puts a helpless foot forward. He’s already involuntarily smiling, but then the memories of the last time they were together freeze him in place again immediately. His smile drops. 

He doesn’t move for a while, in two minds figuratively instead of literally for once. Doubts eat away at his simple happiness and relief; the basic, instinctive joy he associates with Thor’s face. They erode it into something much more complicated, until the moment is a sheer cliff, and he either has to step back or jump off. Will Thor even want to see him? Does he want to see Thor more than he wants to avoid any awkwardness? He remembers what it was like seeing Natasha again.

Ultimately the decision is made not by logic, but by the one quality that could be said to define the avengers: a self-destructive need to help. Thor’s eyes dart around the room, and his faltering smile finally draws Bruce out of his own wallowing. None of his worries matter, suddenly. The only thing that’s important is rescuing Thor from the rushing tide of people. Maybe once he wouldn’t have considered attention something Thor needed saving from, but a lot has changed. 

So he slides through the crowd. (Another great thing about being small again is that he can slip through a tight crowd. The denser areas part pretty quickly when they _identify_ the rude bastard squeezing through, but Bruce prefers quietly slipping past to barging. Taking up space was never for him, and even if it once was, his youth taught him otherwise.) Before he’s prepared for it, he’s ducking under someone’s arm and popping up again directly in front of Thor. The sudden movement catches Thor’s eye and his gaze finally settles in one place again, Bruce’s face. 

Maybe time freezes, or maybe it’s just the two of them that freeze, or maybe Bruce just doesn’t have the words to describe what happens when their eyes meet. He’s a scientist, not a poet. He can’t explain the leap his heart gives, the words that die on his tongue, how little meaning anything but this moment holds. For a moment Thor frowns in confusion and looks at some space above Bruce’s head like he’s expecting to find something there. Then his eyes widen.

“Banner,” Thor finally says, abrupt and startled as if his reaction hadn’t been delayed at all. Bruce knows that the crowd hasn’t gone silent, but Thor is the only person he can hear. He doesn’t respond with anything more than a nod, and even that’s difficult.

Instead, he turns to Smarmy Corporate Bastard – whose stunned face suggests he thought Bruce left a while ago – and offers him a tight smile. Thor can’t say no, but Bruce sure as hell will. “Is there somewhere I can speak with Thor in private?” Smarmy Corporate Asshole frowns, obviously disappointed, and he sees Thor shift from the corner of his eye. (Nervously? Well it’s not surprising, Bruce is nervous too.) None of that matters though. Defend Thor. That’s his priority for now. 

The former landing pad – or, as the avengers knew it, Tony and Thor’s favourite ‘balcony’ for doing trick landings – is deserted. It’s a freezing January evening, and the wind has a fierce bite to it, but Bruce is so anxious about the conversation to come, so hyper-aware of Thor’s heat next to him, that he barely feels it. They close it off properly after their guests of honour make their way out into the cold. It’s not exactly privacy, plenty of people are still gawking through the windows, but it’ll do. They could leave, but every second they wait to speak is another blow to Bruce’s nerves. 

Whilst they’re walking over to the new, higher railing at the edge of the pad (as far away from the window as possible) Bruce takes his first proper, unhurried look at Thor in over a year. 

He’s still sporting the same ‘Viking God’ look, and Bruce is glad because underneath the depression it's a good look for him. Warm and solid and... real, not something exaggerated from the cover of a cheap fantasy novel. Not.... _Untouchable_ Bruce's brain supplies, remembering his hesitation to touch him for the first time. There’s not much physically different, but there’s a change in how he carries himself. He looks more comfortable in his own skin than he did the last time they were here. Peaceful, rather than obviously at war with himself. There’s purpose behind his appearance now, a conscious decision to the look rather than apathetic acceptance of however he’s woken up. His beard is cropped, and his hair looks like it knows what shampoo is again. He wears his comfortable, soft clothing with the same confidence he’d once worn armour. His red jumper almost seems like an echo of his cape.

He likes Thor like this. (Well, he always likes Thor but that's beside the point.) Softer than he was in armour, happier than he was a year and a half ago, more human than he's ever seemed. It makes the awkward conversation coming up feel almost manageable.

Bruce sees his own nervousness reflected in Thor as they look each other over and take stock. What has the year and a half given? What has it taken away? He hopes his desperate loneliness isn’t etched into his skin. By the time they’re looking out over New York, Bruce is sure he’s about to start twitching. The silence drags on a minute more, until he can’t stand it a second longer.

“I thought you were in space?” He asks. It’s not what he intends to start with. There are a lot of better things to say, and Thor must know that judging by the way his eyebrows briefly go up.

“I was until a few minutes ago. Pepper called me,” Thor says, like it makes perfect sense. 

“Pepper?” Bruce forces the bitterness, the ‘oh so _Pepper_ can contact you but your close friends cannot’ out of his voice. It’s been almost a year since he last felt any anger about Thor’s decision, and he doesn’t want to regress just because Thor is in front of him and accountable now. Not to mention, Hulk’s on a hair-trigger because he’s still (rightfully) pissed at Bruce. 

“She sent a message through Nebula, and with the transmission delay and how much we move around, I only got it half an hour ago. They’re very good friends now, so I’m told.” There’s almost enough innocence in Thor’s voice to mollify the bitter, lonely gremlin that’s seized onto Bruce’s chest. He finally looks away from the lights of New York to Thor’s face, which looks as nervous as he feels.

Not nervous enough to finish the job and soothe Bruce _entirely_ though. “So you came back to Earth… for a party?” He never was that good at biting his tongue, and he can’t hide the fact that Thor’s absence and sudden return sting. 

“I-” Thor looks away abruptly, his face a little red. “No. I thought you were greener?” 

It’s an altogether too quick change of topic, but Bruce is a little afraid that if they stay on the space path his shameful bitterness will eclipse the whole complexity of his feelings. So, he doesn’t call Thor on it. Instead he says, “Yeah,” and rests the elbow of his good arm on the railing. “Green really isn’t my colour.”

“I don’t know,” Thor doesn’t smile but his mouth does twitch slightly. “I think you pull it off.” He makes a wiping gesture on his own forehead, and Bruce’s skin prickles with the memory of contact. 

It’s so familiar that Bruce almost has to laugh, from hysteria more than genuine amusement. Did the past year even happen? Maybe he passed out at some point and now he’s woken up to one of Thor’s terrible jokes. The possibility exists, until he looks down and finds his not-green skin, and his scarred arm. 

There’s a new crease in Thor’s forehead as he watches Bruce. “Are you alright?”

“Hmm?” Bruce tilts his head. “Yeah, de-hulking didn’t hurt too bad, and I can’t _feel_ my arm so-” 

“No,” Thor interrupts. “I mean… have you been _alright_?” He reaches out to lay his hand over Bruce’s good arm, his movement as gentle as his voice. The tender gesture is cut off though, when Thor pauses, leaving his hand hanging uselessly in mid-air. 

Bruce shoots him a wry smile as he slowly, reluctantly lowers his hand. “I could ask you the same question.”

“You could,” Thor agrees. “But I asked first.” So he’s still stubborn.

“It’s a long answer.” 

“So’s mine,” Thor counters. Once again they fall silent, caught in a stalemate. Bruce turns away to stare down at the heavy evening traffic without taking any of it in. His brain is buzzing with a million things he wants to say, and a billion things he _should_ say. Choosing where to start is almost as hard as finding the motivation for it. It’s not just what’s happened, it’s the complicated contradictions in the aftermath.

“I don’t know how alright it’s possible to be after… that,” Bruce begins, awkwardly. “But I’m still here,” in body if not always in spirit, “and I’m doing better than I was last time w-” he clears his throat abruptly, gaze flicking to the side to sneak a glance at Thor. His eyes are stubbornly pointed away to the other side, and he hunches his shoulders slightly beneath his jumper. “Better than I was after the funeral,” Bruce finishes awkwardly.

“That’s… good,” Thor says, through a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Me too, same here.”

New York sure is noisy at night, even this high up.

“So how did you, I mean-” Thor turns to face him- “do this.” He gestures at Bruce’s body. “Are you- Is Hulk still- Your arm-”

“Oh it took me over a year to figure this out, had to work with a looooot of other people.” It’s a sudden relief to be talking about something he can distance himself from with a flimsy barrier of reason and science. “Mostly Shuri. Did you ever meet Shuri?” Thor nods. “Right, of course. Now _she_ is a genius,” he rambles, fighting the urge to hit himself over the head. “Separating was a lot harder than combining, so it took a while. Neuroscience, nuclear physics, molecular biology, _psychology_, we needed pretty much every field of science that exists. I’ve had my body and Hulk back for, uh, four months now.” With a frown, Bruce pauses to think. “Well, actually, Hulk was beyond pissed when we first split. So he was back for one of those months, and _then_ I got this body back.”

“Do you and Hulk both still have the arm?” Thor asks, casting a nervous glance to the arm in question. 

Bruce nods. “Yeah we both have this. Shuri basically invented the fabric version of a shape-memory alloy. The transformation generates a _lot_ of heat so the sling reacts to that and stretches and de-stretches with us. I’m still trying to figure out how she got this level of tensile strength on top of-”

“But that’s close to technology we had on Asgard,” Thor interjects, nerves replaced with something close to awe. 

“Like I said, genius. That’s partly how we ended up working together again, Valkyrie reached out to her about your tech. I didn’t even ask her, didn’t even think about it. She just handed me this sling one day and thanked me for the excuse to work on her side-project.” The memory of Shuri’s enthusiasm almost makes him smile too, but then he remembers Thor isn’t asking for an account of science nerdery. “I’m working on a long-term solution, but I’m not sure what we can do about an infinity gauntlet…”

“It’s been so long, and it’s still in a sling?”

“There was no point fixing it when we were about to alter me at a cellular level anyway.” Bruce shrugs. “And in the last four months or so adjusting to having our bodies back has been our focus. I kept dropping things because I was used to holding them gently, de-hulking made Hulk panic that he wasn’t coming back, which just made us _re-hulk_ for a few more hours every time, I ducked going through doorways that were twice my height, I had to readjust to monitoring my heart-rate, stuff like that. We’re better now though,” he finishes, when he sees Thor’s concerned frown. “Really. I wouldn’t have let myself come out to a party if I wasn’t.”

“So… Hulk’s alright too?” Thor leans a little closer. For the first time tonight, his posture relaxes a little bit. 

“He’s fine. Still mad at me, but we never got along that well to begin with. We’re working on it.” A memory - well, something that he’s been told about - surfaces without him looking for it. The smile that creeps onto his face is uncontrollable, and apparently infectious, because Thor tilts his head curiously and smiles back.

“What?” Thor asks, his voice soft in a way their current relationship shouldn’t warrant. Bruce shakes his head. “Are you that happy to be separated?”

“No,” Bruce says around his smile, shaking his head. “Well, yes. I prefer being small but that’s not why I’m smiling. It’s just-” he bites down on actual laughter, something he’s never anticipated happening in his reunion with Thor. “Hulk’s been on a therapist’s couch. A human-sized one.” Before he can even finish describing it, Thor surprises Bruce and himself with a quick bark of choked off laughter. He swallows it down and covers his mouth, but they’ve both still heard it. 

They blink at each other for a few stunned, wide-eyed seconds, equally shocked. Then Thor’s hand slowly moves away from his mouth, and his surprised expression melts into a hesitant smile. Bruce feels himself following suit without even trying. It’s familiar in a way life hasn’t been for a while, it’s nice.

“Sounds like space has been good for you,” Bruce says. The memory of his earlier bitterness stings. They had all needed space and time to recover, Thor had just needed distance to do that. A lot of distance. He went through an unbelievable amount of trauma, and he can’t be blamed for needing to get away. Bruce has already had this exact conversation with himself a long time ago, it’s unbelievable that his selfishness has made an unwelcome return.

_But it still hurt._ He thinks, even as he and Thor smile at each other.

“Yes,” Thor agrees, quietly. “I had a lot of time to think, a lot of new experiences, and all of it helped me understand who I am now. Sober too. Gamora – the green one that’s from the past – banned liquor from the ship when she realised the problem. The Guardians talked me through a lot of things, they understood a surprising amount, and they still knew how to have an adventure. That’s just what they do. They heal and kick ass at the same time. It’s been…” Thor glances at him, and for some unfathomable reason his smile dims. “It’s been good.” 

“I can see that.” Bruce nods at him, trying in-vain to take in all the little changes. “You sound more like… you. You look great.” Thor’s cheeks look a little bit red at that, but not enough that Bruce can’t put it down to the wind.

“The raccoon still thinks I look like melted ice cream. But then he also still thinks I don’t know what a raccoon is.” Thor smirks, but Bruce doesn’t find the prank funny enough to laugh at after Thor’s first comment.

“If he’s trying to insult you he’s not going to find any material from your looks, and even if you weren’t upsettingly handsome, he’s a _raccoon_,” Bruce huffs, so indignant he almost misses the taken-aback look on Thor’s face. “You look amazing - always have, always will - and you seem so much healthier and more confident it’s…” He tries so hard to clamp down on what he knows is coming next, does everything short of biting his tongue off to prevent it. But still, like lightning after thunder, it comes. “I missed you,” he sighs, fighting a losing battle to hide the desperation in his voice. 

It hangs in the air between them. Thor blinks at him, mouth slightly agape, and Bruce stares at some empty spot on the horizon, reciting the periodic table in his head so he doesn’t freak out. All he can do is ask himself how he managed to get even one PhD with his ability to be this stupid. Way to scare Thor off when he’s just come back, way to make this about _you_, way to make yourself exactly as vulnerable as you were last time – because that worked out _great_.

“You did?” Thor breathes, like he can scarcely believe it, and Bruce doesn’t know how to respond to that tone.

But he does because, as he’s established, he’s stupid. “Yeah man,” he mutters, good hand rubbing at the back of his head. “Of course I did. You’re Thor,” slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. The magnitude of what is revealed by that small explanation is almost too much.

Thor’s mouth parts even wider, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, apparently lost for words. That’s just fine with Bruce. It means he gets to ramble on.

“I mean, not just that you’re Thor,” Bruce begins in a hurry. Thor’s eyes are blank, so he’s probably not even listening, but it’s worth a try. “It’s- it’s been lonely. I worked with people on my separation, yeah, but that was business. None of them knew Hulk like you and I do. Nobody understands what I’m really saying when I’m exhausted and I suggest we get food. Valkyrie’s been too busy to talk, Korg is hypnotized by his video games, so even when I’m in New Asgard I haven’t had anybody who was _there_. Shuri’s nice but she’s a teenager so, y’know, I’m not gonna vent or get personal with her am I? Clint doesn’t talk to any of us after Nat, Scott’s got his family back, and it’s not just them it’s me too.”

He runs a helpless hand over his face, but Thor still isn’t talking so without a dam to stop the flood he keeps going.

“I locked myself away to work on this separation thing, and then to deal with the aftermath. Pepper and I have messaged back and forth this whole time, but I haven’t seen her in… a year? I mean, I needed the space, I really did. It’s helped me accept Hulk, accept both of us, realise I was just hiding in Hulk from myself, but it still hurt doing it alone! Dealing with the grief, waking up from our separation experiments aching all over with nobody to even complain to, it was…” He sighs, heavily. “It was lonely, and everybody felt as far away as you were. It just kept reminding me of how my life was before we all met -”

“I’m sorry,” Thor suddenly interrupts. When he brings his hand down on top of Bruce’s good arm it’s like a thunderbolt touching down to earth. He jerks, but doesn’t pull away, meeting Thor’s pleading eyes. Pleading for what? “I’m sorry that I left,” he continues, and the hand on Bruce’s arm shakes slightly. 

“No, come on man.” Bruce shakes his head. “I mean sure I was upset for a while, but you needed to get away from all of it, you needed to process. I understand.” For all his short-lived bitterness, he really does, and he always wants what’s best for Thor. Even if that’s not necessarily what he wants. “How could you possibly have healed _here_ with all the memories?” _How could any of us heal here?_ He thinks to himself, but decides it’s too depressing to say out-loud. For the first time in a while he curses his bad arm, wishes he could place a hand on top of Thor’s. (If he had the option he’d probably be too much of a coward to do it, but it would be nice to have the choice.) Thor squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them with a sigh that seems to bring him strength.

“I needed to go, yes,” Thor agrees. “I needed to rediscover myself, I’m not apologising for that of course… but I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I should have kept in contact somehow or visited. Not just for you, but for myself.” The smile he offers is hesitant, and unexpectedly tender. “I missed you too. Every time I looked out of the window I imagined what you’d say about it,” he adds, quietly.

“Huh?” Bruce blinks at him, dumbfounded. “Thor, you know more about space than me.” 

Thor shakes his head. “No I didn’t want you to explain I just wanted to know how it looked to you, because you’d probably look at it entirely differently, and change my perspective. Space was good for me, and the guardians are good friends, but with you and the revengers it’s… it’s comfortable. We fit. I realise that now, after almost two years of watching the guardians fit together.” Bruce has always imagined their reunion as tense and bitter, with Thor not wanting anything to do with him. Nothing like this. 

He can’t let go, he has to question this. Because that’s what a scientist does when results don’t match the data. “If you feel that strongly then… why _did_ you leave without saying goodbye?” Bruce asks. Thor frowns, like Bruce is the one not making sense, and draws his hand away.

"I thought you wouldn’t want to see me,” he says, looking away. 

Bruce frowns. “What? Why wouldn’t I want to-” 

“Because I kissed you while we were miserable and mourning, and then I started crying onto your face. That’s not exactly charming,” Thor says bluntly. There’s a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks that Bruce expects is mirrored by his own face, because they’re back to _this_ with absolutely zero warning or preparation. “Not to mention I pounced on you while you were emotional, and vulnerable, and-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bruce shakes his head. “Pounced? Thor I _pushed_ you into that.”

“What?” Thor frowns at him “But I brought it up first.”

“Yeah you brought up a _hypothetical_ idea,” Bruce runs a hand through his hair just to ground himself. He has no idea what’s going on. “I’m the one who was like: hey let’s test that hypothesis and make-out _hours_ after we buried our friend. You cried, you weren’t ready for that.”

“And you were?” Thor raises an eyebrow, but his attempt to be sarcastic is ruined by the hysterical edge to his voice. “You were crying too Banner.” 

“Okay, okay so maybe _neither_ of us was ready for that!” Bruce says, strained and rushed because his brain is running a mile a minute. “Maybe it was a dumb mistake that we both made because we were out-of-it, and maybe that’s all it was.” It sounds so simple put like that, and in the silence that follows Bruce feels stupider than ever. He’s spent a year hating himself for that night, and this whole time Thor’s been doing the same thing? They stare at each other and linger in the safety of the quiet for a few more moments.

“I made you uncomfortable,” Thor says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. “You didn’t want to see me. That’s why you didn’t talk to me about it, right?” 

Bruce actually laughs. “Uncomfortable? Thor I made _myself_ uncomfortable when I scared you with my weird, over-emotional, impulsive grabbing. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, I was avoiding you because I thought you were avoiding it.”

“I was, because you were avoiding _me_ and I didn’t want to make _you_ uncomfortable.” Thor pauses, and his eyes go wide with a sharp realisation. “So… we could have just talked about it? I _could_ have said goodbye, I was just too awkward?”

Bruce clears his throat. “Looks that way.”

They stare at each other for a quiet, stunned minute.

“We’re idiots,” Bruce sighs, deflating as the weight of a year is cut loose. “I’m sorry, for that night and for… everything else. Not being there for you, throwing everything away for five minutes of relief, just…. Yeah, everything.” 

“I’m sorry too,” Thor says, which he really doesn’t need to because he’s already apologised. “I understand, Banner. I wasn’t there for you either, and I know we both wanted to be but we just… We could barely look after ourselves, never-mind each other. It was messy. None of us were coping, and we all made bad choices.” He falters here, averts his gaze. “And… I also apologise for taking advanta-”

“Thor.” It’s Bruce’s turn to, hesitantly, put a hand down on his arm. He can’t look at Thor as he continues, for many, many reasons. “Okay…” he takes a deep breath to steady himself, “I don’t think kissing you was a mistake, or something I didn’t want to do. As long as you feel the same, then nobody was taking advantage. The timing was the mistake, and I’ve learnt from that, so I’m gonna go ahead and say we’re not ready for this conversation yet. I just want you to know I didn’t… exactly… hate it.” 

When he chances a glance at Thor’s face he finds him lost for words but clearly, undeniably relieved. His own unconsciously tensed muscles relax. Finally, Thor offers him a smile. It’s not a world-shattering smile, or a forced one. It’s simple, and reassuring. “Right,” Thor says, nodding. “Of course, I agree.” He pats the back of Bruce’s hand twice reassuringly. “And I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly, for making this so complicated, for abandoning you after we’d lost everyone.”

“Nah.” Bruce shakes his head. “It’s fine, if we’re moving on then we’re moving on. Forget all of that. You went through hell for five years. I’d have wanted to leave too.” Thor nods, though he hasn’t quite wiped the guilty look from his face, and pulls his arm away. They fall back into silence.

It should be comfortable, Bruce knows he should be feeling relieved. The elephant in the room (Or should that be the Hulk in the room?) has been dealt with. All his worries have been resolved, and Thor doesn’t hate him for ruining everything. This has gone better than he could have ever dared consider, let alone hope. Not just the resolution of their past but the hopeful question mark over the future… it’s gone so well he ought to be pinching himself to wake up. He should definitely be satisfied, he should _probably_ be overjoyed. 

Instead, it feels like he’s picked off a scab. The thing about being lonely is that he hasn’t had the chance to talk about the five years of absolute hell, about the snap, or anything to do with it. He’s convinced himself that he’s magically okay with all of it now that life is no longer divided in half, like that’s some sort of magical fix that erases what happened. Talking about it, acknowledging that it happened, is like walking into the full strength of a cresting wave. Until now he’s been able to focus on the night of Tony’s funeral, and everybody’s actions since then, as his problem. With that gone everything comes back in a rush, all the other, much deeper problems he’s been neglecting. He needs to talk about it. He’s needed to talk about it for a year and a half.

“We could have stopped it man,”

Thor sighs, an exhausted but unsurprised noise that suggests he knows exactly what Bruce is referring to.

“We could have,” Bruce insists. “We were _right there_ at the first hurdle. We _were_ the first hurdle. We had Hulk, and you, a-and Valkyrie, and Heimdall, and Korg, and Loki, and a bunch of armed rebels from Sakaar, and he didn’t even have all the stones we _ could have_-”

“We couldn’t have.” Thor keeps staring ahead, like he can hear Bruce but not see him. His voice is flat, dull, lifeless. It’s like he’s not even listening.

“Could too,” Bruce snaps, because for all his degrees he doesn’t have the words to refute Thor properly. He’s too drained, too tired just thinking about it.

“We were limping across space with a ship full of injured and vulnerable civilians.” Thor leans forward, folds his arms, flicks his gaze up and locks it there. All defences up. “We were a free target. I was-” His voice cracks, for a split second, and he pulls his arms tighter like they’re the only things holding him together. It’s worryingly similar to how he carried himself almost two years ago, like he’s regressed entirely in the span of a few seconds. 

Bruce opens his mouth to take it all back, to move them onto another topic before he undoes all the recovery Thor’s clearly gone through. But before he can make a sound, Thor carries on. “I wasn’t enough. I was thinking the whole time, from the edge of Asgard to his ship, that I wasn’t going to be enough for whatever came next. And I was right.” Something deep inside of Bruce aches. The ache brushes up against a switch and for a moment his frustration dies. He waits for a second, before cautiously speaking up.

“Like you said, you had civilians to worry about. He got the drop on you because you were protecting your people.” Thor still won’t look at him so Bruce presses on. “You _were_ enough because people survived. Besides, I said _we_ were the first hurdle. You weren’t alone, what happened isn’t on you.”

“I know, I know,” Thor sighs, runs a hand through his thick hair. (It gets tangled halfway through and he grimaces, yanking through the knot a little too hard.) “I’ve spent a year and a half learning that, and convincing myself of it, and I _know_. I know not to be unfair to myself, not to blame myself. I’m fine I just… still hear it in the back of my head.” His voice is strained, but he stops clutching at himself so tightly, and acquiesces when Bruce tugs his hand away from where it’s still tugging at his hair. He glances over and actually manages to smile sadly, which is how Bruce knows he must look really concerned. 

“I shouldn’t have brought this up,” Bruce says, unable to quite meet Thor’s eyes. “I’m sorry, you look like you’re doing so much better and I just-”

“I’m fine Banner, really. I’m not as broken as I used to be. It’s good to talk about it,” Thor insists. 

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks, because he’s been the person lying about how ‘fine’ he is before. Thor nods: a steady, certain movement.

“Talking about it is how I got to this point, where I know we _couldn’t_ have stopped him, so I _didn’t_ fail. Some days it’s harder to remember that than others but I _do_ know it, deep down,” he says, somehow simultaneously gentle and stern. There’s a moment’s pause, then Bruce almost jumps out of his skin and over the railing when he feels something squeeze his hand. He realises, even as the rush of panic grabs him by his stomach, that he’s still holding Thor’s hand from when he’d pulled it away from his hair. “You realise you’re contradicting yourself, right? Was it our fault or not?” His voice is light, not accusatory, because of course Thor understands what’s going on. They’ve got the same bruises from beating themselves up.

Isn’t it just like Thor to always be more than you and your big mouth deserve? 

Bruce sighs, his hand itches with an urge to take his glasses off but Thor’s large hand around his is the only thing keeping him grounded. “I guess I just… didn’t mean that _we_ could have stopped him, I meant _I_ should have stopped him. Or, no, Hulk should have. You had your people to worry about, Hela took out your _eye_. Loki and Heimdall died, Valkyrie and Korg were evacuating everybody. What’s my excuse? What’s Hulk’s excuse?”

“Hulk was not-” Thor speaks up immediately, then catches himself. “Hulk… _is_ not an army. Neither are you.”

“Not what Loki and Stark seemed to think,” Bruce mutters. “He got his ass kicked once and ran away, and then I couldn’t do anything, could I? Maybe if Hulk had been there it would have ended differently.”

“You know that’s not true,” Thor says, squeezing his hand again. Then, because of course Thor remembers and understands that irrational, stubborn self-blame, he carries on, “You do, right?” 

“Maybe,” Bruce sighs. “I don’t know. I just know he would have been more help than me, I’m…”

“Don’t say useless.” Thor frowns at him. “You’re not.”

“But I was. I couldn’t even admit that was how I _felt_, could I?” Bruce looks away, because he has to say it but he can’t face Thor’s disappointment. “I just… turned around and hid behind Hulk, took his strength so I’d never be useless to you guys again and told everyone I was fine.”

“… I think we all told each other we were fine,” Thor says, which somehow manages to be comforting rather than condescending, and almost coaxes a smile out of Bruce. He still can’t look at Thor but, judging by the thumb rubbing pattern on the back of his hand, he doesn’t mind. “At least that explains why you wanted to merge with Hulk.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says on an exhale, tilting his head to let the bitter wind help Thor’s hand to ground him in the moment. “If I haven’t come to terms with the snap at least I’ve accepted that. It’s all because of you, actually. You started talking about Hulk’s personality and it kind of crumbled my foundations. Merging was a nice quick fix but… I feel like this will be better for both of us, long-term.”

Thor actually smiles, wide. “I’m glad I was able to help my friends, both of you.” Bruce smiles back, actually manages to look Thor in the eye now, and squeezes his hand. (It’s the only way he can even begin to express his thanks, and Thor stares down at their joined hands as if he’s somehow as surprised by the discovery as Bruce was.) 

Thor has always been the closest to understanding Hulk. Tony’s experimenting, Natasha’s lullabies, Bruce’s obsessive monitoring and introspection… none of them ever came as close to understanding the big guy as Thor did. Maybe they just think the same because they’re hotheads who love a fight. Maybe Thor’s just the only person with the right combination of bullheadedness, kindness, strength, and understanding to get through to Hulk. (Though that’s not quite true, is it? Valkyrie managed to win him over too.)

“You’ve always been in Hulk’s corner,” Bruce sighs, “even before I knew there was a corner to stand in. You know you were the first person to _apologise_ because something made me Hulk out, because we were scared? And it wasn’t even your fault,” Bruce tells him. Thor looks away from his hand and back up to his face. Maybe Bruce still, somehow, knows him a little too well, because he can recognise the annoyance on Thor’s face, and tell that it’s on his behalf. “It’s fine, really.”

“It’s not fine,” Thor huffs, his brow still furrowed.

“Didn’t matter if I was Hulk or Bruce, somebody always had a problem with one or the other. Too useless or too powerful, too smart or too dumb, you know? I was used to it, but then… You had this way of making me feel like which one I was, who I was, didn’t matter.” He still does. “I guess it just surprised me at first.” Bruce looks away from Thor, focuses on some meaningless but bright New York building. There’s a beat, then Thor speaks again.

“But who you are _does_ matter,” he says, so gentle, and so clearly saying something more. Thor likes who he is, likes him, every part and version of him (literally) and Bruce knew that before the five years of hell, the year of separation, but now the reminder is a shock to his doubting system. 

He jumps when Thor reaches up with his other hand to gently touch his face. Carefully, like someone approaching a wounded animal, he coaxes Bruce to meet his eyes again. His softness still hurts, just as it did in 2012. “You know you’re a hero to my people, right? To me too. I never thought of you as anything less than that,” Thor tells him, and maybe the hand on his cheek lowers but Bruce swears he can still feel it, like lingering static on his skin. “Even when we were on Sakaar, no matter what I said while I was stressed, you’re both equally useful, you’re both heroes. You saved half of all life in the universe. Whether that was you, Hulk, or both of you, it doesn’t matter.”

Somehow, despite his numb, tingling cheek, Bruce manages to speak. “I think I might finally understand that. Everything that’s happened has helped me finally appreciate the big guy.” He pauses for a second, not in hesitation but rather to feel the weight of his next few words. “Tony had a point after all, about Hulk saving my life, having a purpose.”

It usually hurts to talk about him. Bruce can’t explain why it doesn’t right now, why talking to Thor makes everything that happened seem a little further away. If anything it should bring it home that it’s just the two of them now (and Clint, technically). Maybe Thor just makes the space around him feel safer, lighter. (It’s possible – no, probable – that’s just an effect he has on Bruce.)

“I miss him,” Bruce says, pausing for a second to sigh, “and Natasha, and… all of them.” The wind has picked up, and it bites at his ears and nose fiercely. “Missed you too. I just… miss the avengers.” He glances over his shoulder at his home that isn’t there anymore and the people that have gone with it. He’s never been able to talk this much about missing them before. He’d ran from it, and then by the time he was ready to talk about it everybody else had wanted to put it behind them. They’d all gone away, or just stopped talking about it.

“… Me too,” Thor agrees. Then, even quieter, “Everyone.” It’s a huge step that _Thor_ can talk about the loss, acknowledge it without breaking down or hiding from it. It’s not a nice thing to talk about, it never will be, but it’s so much healthier to do this than to pretend nothing’s happened. Maybe Thor’s good eye clouds over, his shoulders tense, and he withdraws slightly, but they can deal with that. It’s part of confronting what happened.

So. Dealing with it. Right. 

Bruce rubs gentle circles on his wrist with one thumb and squeezes lightly. The weight of Thor’s hand in his is still comfortable and comforting (and it’s the only part of his body that isn’t freezing from the wind, because Thor gives off heat like he radiates everything else). It draws Thor away from wherever his thoughts were headed, thankfully. 

“Maybe you and Stark where only half right. There doesn’t have to be a grand purpose to Hulk saving your life,” Thor says, gently. Bruce has no idea where that came from exactly, how they got back onto the topic of Hulk and purpose.

Even Thor seems confused by his own words, because he pauses again to collect his thoughts. Then, he slowly begins again. “If it gives you comfort to believe Hulk saved your life for your snap then keep that meaning, but maybe the purpose was just to keep living, and maybe that's enough. I think you’re just a good person who deserves to live, and so much more than a body that can tolerate gamma radiation. The accident doesn’t need to have a _purpose_ for you to feel good about who you are now, with Hulk. I don't care what the 'purpose' was I just think it was partly luck, for you and for me- I mean- because… well…,” he trails off, curses. “I’m trying to say… ” He groans. “I’m sorry I know we’re not ready for that conversation I’m not trying to-”

“Thor.” Bruce takes a tiny, almost miniscule step closer to him. He could almost disguise it as reshuffling his feet, if the moment weren’t so charged. Thor looks up, hand pulling away from his face, and his eyebrows shoot up like Bruce has taken a full stride closer. It’s intense for a moment, until Bruce speaks again, “I know.” They both relax, releasing held breaths, as the mutual understanding saves them from the ordeal of having to put words to it all tonight.

Bruce does know, deep down, and he’s already admitted it once tonight, but he balks in the face of saying it out-loud. Thinking it is one thing, but _saying it_ feels like a presumption, an audacious, egoistical thing for _Bruce Banner_ to do. There’s won’t be any way to politely avoid it though, if Thor takes a bulldozer to the walls closing off his vulnerabilities. He’s a very stubborn man (Asgardian) when he needs to be, and those walls were once close to crumbling around Thor without any prodding at all. It’s a dangerous thing to feel comfortable with someone when you’ve had to be guarded almost your whole life.

“You know I didn’t come back for this party, right?” Thor asks almost reluctantly. Bruce tilts his head, because he does remember Thor saying something about this, but he also remembers how quickly he’d changed the topic. He doesn’t want to speak and interrupt him now he’s decided to talk about it. Thor watches him for a moment, like the tilt of his head is the most fascinating thing in the world, then he shakes his own head. “Pepper said you were going to be here, and probably all by yourself.”

Oh.

“She did?” Bruce manages, aware of how faint his voice is. “So you came… for… huh,” he trails off, aiming to sound thoughtful instead of confused. Thor’s face is red too now, and that’s not from the wind. 

“For you,” Thor finishes awkwardly for him. When Bruce makes rare, direct eye contact he shuffles on the spot, rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “Well I know how much you hate parties. I couldn’t just leave you to face it all alone, could I? And if you were still big you wouldn’t have had anywhere to hide so- Banner!” But Bruce can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him at the mental image of something big and green trying to hide in a crowd. He shakes his head, furiously trying to disguise it in coughs as Thor’s face shifts wildly from despair to frustration to embarrassment. “Don’t laugh, I was trying to help you! Do you have any idea how fast I had to move to get here? I didn’t even have time to stop and think about dressing for a party and-”

“I’m glad you came,” Bruce interrupts, “just in-case I haven’t made that clear already.” Thor settles almost immediately, the only sign of his rambling self-defence is a lingering blush. Watching him sparks a warmth in Bruce’s chest that feels almost like a fire against his freezing skin. _Adorable_. It might be dangerous to feel so at ease, but it’s also an incredible, joyful feeling. An exhalation 

There’s a few minutes of silence. It’s comfortable. Maybe it wasn’t a decade ago, but it is now.

Bruce can still hear Tony’s voice, clear as a whistle. “Take care of each other.” The ‘ding’ of an elevator. The doors closing on him, Nat, Steve, and Clint. “We’ll be back soon.” Except they won’t. None of them will be. Three of them are gone and Clint…. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Clint never wanted to see them again, never wanted to remember any of it. Bruce isn’t sure he wants to see Clint, happy and whole with his family restored, either. He doesn’t want to remember them, doesn’t want to hear ghosts. It’s different with Thor. Bruce contemplates him from the corner of his eye and finds him staring out over New York. It’s not… remembering with Thor. It’s just not forgetting. He doesn’t mind hearing the ghosts with him. It’s hard to explain.

Thor’s never here either, it’s not like he’s any more available than Clint. In fact, he’s less so… but Thor came tonight. He came, and now they’re standing here on this graveyard of memories, and Bruce can’t put into words how much it helps to see him. Maybe that’s all that matters, how Thor makes him feel when he _is_ here.

“So… are you going back to space after this?” Bruce dares to ask, unconsciously tightening his hold on Thor's hand. He thinks for a second, irrationally, that Thor can’t leave if he's holding onto him. 

“… No,” Thor says. It’s a soft little word, but it cuts the weights from Bruce’s heart and rolls a boulder off of his chest. They meet each other’s eyes and Thor smiles. “No, I think I’ll be sticking around for a while. After all,” Thor slowly but confidently takes one step closer to him, “Stark told me to take care of you, and I think I need to start doing a better job of it.”

Bruce stares at him until he finally manages to form words again. “… Me too.” His hold on Thor's hand loosens as they both turn back to look at the New York skyline. 

He shuffles closer to Thor. Thor shuffles closer to him. It’s a slow and gradual dance but eventually there’s no space left between them, their arms in perfect parallel lines. Bruce rests his head on Thor’s bicep cautiously and Thor immediately tilts his own head toward the touch, leaning into him. When Bruce inhales deeply through his nose, he's glad to find some things don't change. Thor always smells like some strange, warming combination of grass after a rainstorm and the evening air before a summer storm. (Sometimes other scents too: iron, copper, some Asgardian perfumes and oils back in the day, but always those two underneath it all.) Unless he’s fresh from a battle, then it’s smoke, an electrical fire….

It’s probably a little weird that Bruce knows that, but he doesn’t really have it in him to care. Everything is a little too cozy, a little too soft right now. 

For a long time they stay like that. Just for now, for this, the baggage, the mistakes, the party going on behind them, and the people who can almost certainly see them standing like this… none of it matters. It’s the first moment of peace Bruce has had since- well, that doesn’t matter either. They don’t have to look at each other. They don’t have to say a word. They just… understand each other. 

“Do you want to go get shawarma?” Bruce eventually asks, calmer and softer than the dying wind.

Thor smiles with his old smile, his open, honest, ‘child complimenting your shoes’ smile.

It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this as just a 2012 oneshot in May after Endgame dropped, because I wanted something fluffy. But then I got more and more bitter about Endgame and for probably the first time in my life decided I wanted to challenge myself and write canon-compliant fix-it fic to try and come to terms with it. It's taken me like 3 months to write it bc I Have Mental Illness and executive dysfunction coming out my ears. At this point I feel guilty for how long I've been working on it and I just wanna get it out so I apologise for any messy bits/details. I'll probably come back and edit them later.
> 
> Did I take some liberties with the Endgame timelines of events and details? Yes. But Endgame took several liberties w/ established character arcs, Thor as a person, and their own damn explanation of time travel, so I consider me moving a few events around fair payback. (Also merged Bruce-Hulk, my son, I don't hate you I just need to give Hulk rights.)
> 
> Anyway hmu on tumblr same username if you want me to yell about thorbruce I am driving one of my best friends up the wall talking about them every single day. I'm this close to getting a twitter just to yell about them a ship has never got me this good before.


End file.
